


A Hole In The World

by Elfbert



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Loss, M/M, Memory Loss, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:17:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6120665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes suffers a great loss. He longs for something he never really had. He grieves for a person he didn't really know.</p>
<p>But someone else has suffered a loss far greater than his.</p>
<p>Mycroft is faced with a situation that's out of his control, and his usual self-assured calm is shattered. He's forced to trust the people around him, because he knows he can't trust himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A modern-day AU of the Sherlock 'verse.
> 
> Beta read by [TheMuchTooMerryMaiden](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMuchTooMerryMaiden/pseuds/TheMuchTooMerryMaiden). All remaining mistakes are my own.

**2009**

 

"Beautiful day," Mycroft Holmes commented, as he climbed the steps outside the hotel. Beautiful mainly meaning 'bloody boiling'. Whoever decided it was a good idea to visit a hot country in the middle of the summer season needed a lesson in planning such things.

 

"Yes, Sir," the man beside him answered.

 

"Room 128 I think he said, didn't he?" Mycroft knew he was correct, but he tried to engage in conversation as much as possible, with his staff. Especially this one.

 

"Sir," the man answered in agreement.

 

They took the stairs - Mycroft was no longer sure if he took them because he was always cleverly pushed towards them with subtle gestures from his companion, or if he now just assumed they would, and made the choice himself.

 

He used the electronic key to open the door of the hotel room and stepped inside. The man he was with did a quick, automatic, survey of the room, pushing open the bathroom door, checking it out, opening the wardrobes and seeing what was out of the window.

 

"Okay, Greg?" Mycroft asked.

 

"Yes, Sir," Lestrade smiled. "Shall I leave you to unpack? I'll be just outside," he gestured to the door.

 

"Nonsense, stay – I shall use the bathroom. Your bag is here, too. I believe the sofa turns into a bed. They did apologise, but they said it would be safest this way."

 

Lestrade nodded. "Of course, Sir." He walked back to the window pulling the blind aside and surveying the area again, more thoroughly. Making a mental note of the roads, the wall surrounding the hotel and buildings nearby, listening as Mycroft moved around the room and finally entered the bathroom.

  
  


Mycroft showered, the cool water washing away the sweat and grime of their journey. The plane they had flown in on had been military – hardly the level of comfort he was used to. And the moment they had stepped onto Afghan soil he had been whisked away to his first meeting, whilst their baggage had been sent on to the hotel. He had been immersed in paperwork for the flight, and had, once again, been glad that Lestrade was by his side, solid, reliable, but inconspicuous. The fact he was dressed in light coloured cargo trousers, which accentuated his bum perfectly, and a light shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, was entirely beside the point. Mycroft had been trying to ignore that fact all day, with varying degrees of success.

 

He stepped out of the shower and began to dry himself, wondering how on Earth he'd got into the position of lusting after his bodyguard – it went against every principle he had. Yet he couldn't do anything about it, because Lestrade made these parts of his job bearable. No other bodyguard he'd had employed had been as good – Lestrade was thorough and efficient at his job, but also, on the long journeys around the globe, or the boring moments waiting for politicians in faceless London office blocks, Lestrade could be counted on for decent conversation, and even help with the crossword, on occasion. Every other person he'd ever been sent had been far too much brawn and nowhere near enough brain.

 

He dressed in fresh clothes and combed his hair, then carefully folded his old clothes and left the room, a small cloud of steam accompanying him.

 

"Do you want to…" he gestured to the bathroom.

 

"I'll wait, Sir. Anthea called, she said tomorrow was all confirmed, and when you've got a moment she's sorting out some appointments for next week, so can you ring her back?"

 

Mycroft nodded. "Of course, yes. Right, well I've just got some…" he gestured to his briefcase.

 

"'Course, Sir. I'm just going to check out the rest of the hotel – I won't be far away."

 

Mycroft nodded and watched as Lestrade left the room, then settled at the small desk.

  
  


Lestrade quickly walked to each end of their corridor, taking note of fire exits and stairwells, as well as the lifts. He made a very fast tour of the ground floor, as well, again noting entrances and exits, including those marked for staff only. When he approached their room again he knocked before sliding his keycard into the lock and entering.

 

Mycroft glanced up. "Anything of interest?" he enquired.

 

Lestrade shook his head. "Just like the plans said. Their security is adequate, made better by the presence of two Yanks staying here, they've got people in the lobby, as well as outside their rooms. We'll be fine."

 

Mycroft smiled. He'd never really valued people giving him such assurances, but, he'd realised once he met Lestrade, it was simply because he didn't trust them to make such statements. He trusted Lestrade.

  
  


That evening he was forced to have dinner with two of the men who were involved in the project he was working on. He sat and made small talk, trying not to be distracted by Lestrade sitting at the bar, in the corner of the room. The food was excellent, but the men seemed intent on trying to ingratiate themselves with him, and it bored him. He was interested only in facts, and knew that what they were both saying, both about the project and their own companies was at best wishful thinking, and at worst outright lies. He finally made his excuses about having a long day and an early start, and bid them farewell, Lestrade immediately putting down the glass of water he'd been drinking and falling into step beside him.

 

"You look bored, Sir," he said, and there was a slight smile on his face.

 

"You have no idea," Mycroft groaned.

 

"Never mind, day out tomorrow. Even if the meetings don't come to much, the scenery will be stunning in the mountains," Lestrade offered.

 

Mycroft smiled – he needed someone who could remind him that there was life outside business and politics, sometimes.

  
  


Once they were back in the room Lestrade efficiently made his bed up, apologising to Mycroft for taking up the space, then had a quick shower. He walked back into the room wearing just his trousers and a towel draped around his neck, then sat and cleaned first his main pistol, then his backup weapon, knowing that Mycroft had stopped working and was watching him, but not reacting to it.

 

Mycroft finally packed away his papers and yawned. "Time for bed. Okay for six in the morning?"

 

Lestrade nodded. "Of course," he answered, setting the alarm on his phone.

 

Mycroft settled in the bed, hearing only the gentle hum of the air conditioning, and Lestrade's almost-silent breathing. He thought about the man just a few feet from him as his eyes slid shut.

  
  


A noise awoke him in the night and he lay still, eyes wide in the darkness, then looked to the window. The lights of the city were dim, but he could make out the silhouette of Lestrade, with the blind pulled slightly aside. He rolled over, pushing himself up on an elbow.

 

Lestrade turned and looked at him. "Nothing to worry about, Sir. Rocket attack, a few miles away. Go back to sleep."

 

Mycroft couldn't take his eyes off the smooth skin, highlighted just enough by the light to send his mind into all sorts of places he was certain it shouldn't go. Lestrade had obviously been sleeping in just his boxers, and Mycroft slowly licked his lips at the defined muscles, the lithe figure.

 

"You're worried," he said, as Lestrade didn't move.

 

Lestrade gave a small huff of laughter. "It's my job to worry, Sir. Your job to get some sleep for tomorrow."

 

Mycroft settled his head back onto the pillow. He didn't know how he was supposed to sleep though. His erection was pushing against the soft fabric of his pyjamas, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it, not with Lestrade in the same room.

  
  


In the morning Mycroft awoke as Lestrade was finishing dressing, and quickly prepared himself for the day ahead. Lestrade was on the 'phone as Mycroft ate breakfast, arranging for the cars and other members of the party to meet them at the front of the hotel. He also carried spare water bottles and a rucksack slung on his back.

 

The day was long, with legal wrangling, arguments, people getting far too hot under the collar and everyone fighting about money. Mycroft found it all rather vulgar, but attempted to find solutions to the many and various problems as best he could.

 

At the end of the day he slumped back in the car. "That didn't go as planned," he sighed. "We shall have to go out to the site. Meet the local leaders."

 

Lestrade was already shaking his head. "Not a good idea. The countryside is far harder to control than the city. We go out there, we'll be a target for anyone who's ever wanted their very own bargaining chip."

 

"And if we don't, the entire project may well fall through – if you had any idea how many hours have been spent simply sorting it out between the Western governments…well, anyway, my task here is to ensure it goes ahead, so whatever needs to be done, we must do."

 

Lestrade sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "I'll liaise with the others tonight. But I don't like it."

  
  


Mycroft felt a certain amount of guilt when Lestrade finally crawled into bed in the early hours of the morning – he had stationed another security officer outside Mycroft's room whilst he had organised a convoy for the morning, and Mycroft had missed his presence. He also had no idea it would take quite so long as it had to make the arrangements. He did understand the difficulties of the security situation, and he knew it was hard on Lestrade trying to work with locals and ensure the safety of them all at very short notice.

 

"Everything okay?" Mycroft asked in the darkness.

 

There was a silence, then Lestrade answered. "As good as it will get. Early start again, we've got three vehicles, local drivers – all security cleared. And there will be troops at the other end, for the meeting."

 

"Excellent," Mycroft said.

  
  


The next morning seemed even hotter than the previous days, and Mycroft was glad to see that Lestrade had arranged for a slab of bottled water to be kept in each car – and less pleased when he was told to put on a bullet proof vest. It made him sweat, and ruined the line of his shirt. However, Lestrade was already wearing one, the blue fabric tight around him, his crumpled shirt open at the neck and sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

 

The drivers seemed very friendly, but Mycroft noticed that a security man sat next to each of them – Lestrade taking his place in the passenger seat of Mycroft's car, with Mycroft and one of the Americans in the back. He kept half his mind on idle chatter with the man, half of it watching Lestrade as he moved around in the seat, looking above them, all around, down side streets and keeping tabs on the two vehicles in front of them. He had a radio and would occasionally talk to the other cars – usually about the speed they were travelling, or whether to overtake the slow rumbling lorries which seemed to take up a lot of road, with seemingly no interest in sticking to one side or the other. Mycroft had also spotted a small machine gun in the footwell – far more weaponry than Lestrade usually carried – as well as the usual pistols on his belt.

 

They reached the meeting place without incident, and Mycroft had found the journey interesting – the small communities they had passed through had been full of children chasing the large foreign vehicles, and locals taking an interest in the convoy as it passed by, stopping their work and watching. The scenery had been, as Lestrade had said, stunning. The mountains soared above them, bleak and unforgiving, the temperatures varying widely between the bottom of the shadowy passes and the plateaus where the sun beat down upon them.

 

The day was slightly more satisfying – the locals being more interested in the project than Mycroft had hoped, and people trying their best to find ways of working together. As they headed back to their vehicles after a lunch laid on by the local leaders Mycroft was smiling.

 

"Went well," he said to Lestrade, who was still glancing around, obviously on high alert.

 

"Good, Sir," he answered, seeming distracted.

 

"And you're right – the mountains truly are spectacular. It's a shame we don't have more time."

 

"We should get back to the city," Lestrade answered. "It's too hard to control this area."

 

Mycroft took one last look around, smiling at the people who had treated them so well all day, and sliding his fingers under the uncomfortable edges of his bulletproof vest. He could see the sweat on Lestrade's shirt, and was sure he didn't look any better. He climbed into his vehicle, giving a final wave to his hosts, and watched as Lestrade got into the passenger seat and radioed the other cars to move the convoy off.

 

The two of them in the back chatted about the meeting they had had, and Mycroft tried to take in as much scenery as he could. He looked at Lestrade when he heard the tone of his voice change as he spoke into the radio, though.

 

"Harry, put some more speed on, I've got a bad feeling about this," Lestrade ordered the man in the front vehicle.

 

"What's up?" Mycroft asked.

 

"Just…keep your head down, Sir," Lestrade ordered, looking around them.

 

Mycroft felt the vehicle speed up, bumping over the rough road, the inhabitants of the village they were passing through still staring in at them.

 

"What have you…" Mycroft began, and then the world seemed to explode, a massive bang and the Land Rover skidded to a halt, slumping down to the front, glass and heat seemingly filling the air. There were shouts, and Mycroft felt the door next to him open. He began to shy away, but a firm hand grabbed his arm.

 

"Stay down, Sir," a familiar voice shouted, and he found himself dragged along through the smoke and the dust, pushed down low as they ran, Lestrade's arm around him, and he could hear Lestrade shouting into his radio at the other drivers and bodyguards. He was deafened by gunfire from close by, and coughed as dust filled his throat.

 

"Get in, get in," he was shoved into the car in front, and he felt another body behind him, a tangle of arms and legs as they clambered into the already-full vehicle, and there were shouts and yells in both English and other languages. He could hear Lestrade yelling at the driver to go, and as the vehicle's tyres span in the dust he lifted his head, looking out of the back window.

 

He saw his driver falling, blood bright on his white shirt, and then he saw Lestrade's distinctive form, and watched in horror as the front of the vehicle seemed to explode in a huge gout of flame, dust and smoke, parts of the car flying through the air. Lestrade was lost in the dust and debris, but Mycroft was sure he could see a body, slumped on the road.

 

"No, no!" he shouted. "Greg – my…stop, we have to…"

 

A strong hand pushed down on his back. "Down, Sir, keep down!" a rough voice shouted.

 

He found himself crouching down, four grown men in the backseat of the Land Rover, everyone in each other's way, knees and elbows trapped and sharp, everyone trying to stay as low as possible. He could smell the smoke still clinging to his clothing. His heart was pounding, hands shaking, but he couldn't think about his own safety, all he could think about was Lestrade still lying in the dirt.

 

He could hear the bodyguard in the front on his radio, calling in help and reporting the situation. He felt tears stinging his eyes, and prayed that Lestrade could be rescued – he was armed, he was trained, he could survive. Mycroft took a deep breath and gathered himself. He would be fine. 

  
  


They were taken directly to an army base, and when they spilled from the cars everyone was looking pale and shaken. Mycroft headed for someone who looked as if they probably had some power – he straightened himself up, brushed dust from his clothing, and composed himself.

 

"Excuse me, my ma…my bodyguard, he was…he didn't get away," Mycroft started. "I saw him…he may well be injured. If your men can…"

 

He was cut off abruptly. "We've dispatched a team. We're awaiting a report. If anyone's still there, we'll find them."

 

He nodded, but he wanted more – wanted someone to ask him about Lestrade, get a description, to take it seriously. "He's…about five foot eleven, dressed in light colours, armed, he had blue body armour on…"

 

"Yeah, all right, Sir. Like I said, if anyone's there, we'll find them."

 

The officer walked away, and Mycroft stood, alone, as people moved around him. He could hear other people in the party shouting and arguing – mainly the drivers, but also some of the Americans and the two bodyguards.

 

He pulled out his mobile phone and hit speed dial. He wasn't surprised when it rang out, but he had had to try.

 

The answerphone message was abrupt.  "Lestrade. Leave a message."

 

He paused, then he spoke, his voice hoarse and croaky. "Greg…we're trying to find you. People will find you. Just…hang on."

 

He knew there was little chance of the message ever being picked up, but he also knew that he had to try. The man had put his life on the line for him, and it didn't matter to Mycroft that that was his job – he had moved on from just being an employee, Lestrade had become a friend. He was used to being able to control any given situation, and he felt useless now, with no one to do his bidding, no one willing to launch a rescue mission. He looked back to the vehicles, and noticed that the one he had been pushed into had a patch of blood on the door, and the rear windscreen was cracked. He lifted the phone once again, and pressed another button. This time it was answered within moments.

 

"Mr Holmes?"

 

"Anthea…" And for once he was lost for words. He knew what he was about to say would be as painful for her as it was to him.

 

"Sir? Mr Holmes – what's happened? Are you okay?"

 

"It's…Greg. We were ambushed. He…I've lost him, Anthea…I've…"

 

The short pause was enough to tell him she was as distraught as he was. But she pulled herself together. "Sir, are you okay? Are you safe? Where are you?"

 

"At the base – I'm fine, uninjured. Greg was…the car was attacked, he got me to the one in front. I don't know…he was going back for the driver, I think, and…he went down, I saw him…"

 

"I've ordered a trace on his phone, Sir," Anthea said, and Mycroft knew she would be working furiously from the office in London. "I've got more security en route to you. Have they sent a patrol out?"

 

"Yes, yes, but…"

 

"I know, Sir. I know."

 

Mycroft found a handy box and sank down onto it. He knew that Anthea did understand, but it was scant consolation.

 

"I'll…I'll call again, if I find out anything," he finished, lost for anything useful to say.

 

"Yes, Sir. And please, stay safe."

 

He hung up and was immediately approached by a soldier. "Sir, you need to accompany me to the comms room, please," he said, and waited for Mycroft to stand.

 

The rest of his afternoon was spent reporting to people in England, commanders in the base and various others, all of whom said they'd do everything they could to help, whilst seeming to do nothing. At some point someone forced him to accept medical attention, and it was the first time he realised he had been injured - small cuts on one arm and his face.

 

As night closed in someone approached him, holding out some bags. "Sir? Yours, from the hotel. If you follow me, I'll take you to your room here. You're due out first thing in the morning, on the flight back home."

 

"The first…but my…my security officer is missing."

 

"Orders, Sir. And not from this end."

 

"I…"

 

"Sorry, Sir. But you will be on that plane. Here, washroom is down the way there. Just ask anyone around if you need anything. Mess tent is back where you were, okay?"

 

"Yes. Thank you." Mycroft sank onto the bed, looking at the bags at his feet, and realising one of them was Lestrade's. He found himself reaching for it without really knowing what he was doing. The bag was sturdy, but soft from use, the canvas worn in some places. He undid one of the zips and reached inside. He reverently placed the folded shirts on the bed beside him, then the other clothing – there wasn't much, just enough to be practical. In the bottom of the bag was a washbag, a dog-eared paperback about First World War commanders and a small leather-bound diary. Mycroft held it in his hands. Normally he wouldn't think of looking through anyone's personal belongings, but he'd never been in this situation before, and he felt a great responsibility.

 

He realised that Lestrade had never mentioned any family, but Mycroft presumed he must have some, and he felt it was his duty to inform them what had happened. He opened the cover, then began flicking through the pages. It was mainly notes on places they'd been, people to meet, phone numbers, all things relevant to Lestrade's work and his planning. He almost smiled at some of the small details Lestrade had put in – some of the things which had obviously worried him about some locations they visited. It made Mycroft appreciate what he did all the more. He was almost at the end of the diary when something slipped from between the last pages and fell into his lap. He picked it up, turning it over and he felt as if his heart stopped.

 

The photograph was Lestrade, carrying a small girl on one arm, his other around a pretty woman. They were at the seaside somewhere, and Lestrade was smiling a broad grin, and looked much younger. But Mycroft had noticed, on the rare occasions Lestrade did smile or laugh, that it did make him look far younger and more boyish. Mycroft actually didn't know how old Lestrade was – older than he was, he had always presumed. He ran a finger over the worn photograph and wondered why Lestrade had never mentioned his family. Had he been such a terrible person to work with that Lestrade had never wanted to share such things with him? And when on Earth did he see them? On his rare days off?

 

He reached for his phone again. It only occurred to him that it would be the middle of the night in the UK after Anthea had answered.

 

"Sir?" she said, sounding as bright as ever.

 

"Anthea – I'm sorry, I didn't think about the time…but I…I need information on Gregory's family. I need to know if they've been informed of the situation, I'm flying back in the morning…I want to see them."

 

"He doesn't have any family, Sir," Anthea said, and he could detect a note of sadness in her voice.

 

"He does – he must. I found a picture, in his belongings, of him with a woman and child."

 

"Sir…I'm sure…I'll check with the company in the morning, and go through the records. I'll have everything for you when you're back."

 

"Thank you. And…I'm sorry for waking you."

 

"It's nothing, Sir. You know I want to help."

  
He hung up and looked back at the small picture, putting it carefully back in the diary, loading it back into the bag, with the other possessions. Then he lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He felt as if he'd let Lestrade down in the worst possible way, and now he wasn't being allowed to do anything about it. He knew he should never have allowed himself to develop feelings for the man, but damn it, if you were to live with someone day in, day out then how could you resist? Lestrade was quiet, intelligent, handsome, understanding, hardworking. Was…had been. Mycroft felt a tightening in his chest, an aching loss for something he had never even had.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning Mycroft was taken from the base before light, and as the huge military aircraft took off he couldn't help but look back towards the mountains with an enormous sense of longing. He wished he could have stayed – gone back there, looked for Lestrade. He didn't trust anyone else to do the job properly.

 

When he landed back in England he saw his car waiting for him, Anthea standing next to it, her hands still for once, crossed in front of her. Every attention on him.

He thanked the man who loaded the bags into the back, then turned to her. He barely registered that there was a man there, too, standing by the passenger door. He was dressed in a cheap suit, and as he surveyed the area Mycroft was hit by the sudden realisation that this was Lestrade's replacement – already there, already in Lestrade's place. As if nothing had happened.

"Sir," Anthea bowed her head slightly, then held open the door for him. She didn't need to say more, he could read it in her expression. The three of them had spent more time together than they ever did with their own families – he knew she'd be feeling the loss as keenly as he was. Except it hadn't been her that Lestrade had died protecting. He viciously scrubbed the thought from his mind. Lestrade wasn't dead, he was just missing.

Once back in his house he found himself drawn to Lestrade's rooms. He hoped that the new man hadn't been moved in already. He hadn't been into the rooms since Lestrade had moved in over two years before. The man may have lived in the house – for reasons of security – but Mycroft tried to afford him every possible privacy.

He pushed the door open, not knowing what to expect, and stepped inside. The living area was neat - almost sterile. On the desk were files and a laptop. A guitar leant against the end of the desk, and a comfy chair was by the window. Mycroft hadn't even known Lestrade could play the guitar. The small kitchen area at the end of the room was clean, nothing left out, the fridge even turned off and propped open slightly. As if he didn’t expect to come back, Mycroft’s brain supplied.

He walked into the small bedroom and sat heavily on the bed. He noticed that on the bedside table there was another photograph – this one framed. He picked it up, and recognised the woman and child again – a little older in this photograph, and Lestrade wasn't with them. He sighed, running his finger down the plain silver frame.

A very slight cough made him look up to see Anthea standing in the doorway, a cup of tea in her hand.

"Sir?"

"Anthea. Thank you." He watched as she carefully put the cup down on the bedside table.

"Sir. About Greg's family…" she paused as he turned the photograph around to show her. "Yes," she said, nodding. She sat down next to him on the bed, twisted around, so she could look him in the eye. "Sir, I'm sorry, but…he did have a wife, and a daughter…but they both died, Sir."

"No…" the word was out of his mouth before he could stop it. He looked down at the picture, and couldn't imagine the heartbreak Lestrade must have gone through. "He…he never said anything," Mycroft said softly. "Not a word."

"I know, Sir," Anthea reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. "It was some time ago. Nearly ten years. He was still in the Army at the time, deployed. It was a house fire. He left the Army shortly afterward."

Mycroft just nodded, silently, staring at the girl and the woman. Thinking about Lestrade. The man he had fallen for, but apparently didn't know anything about.

______________

 

Watson rubbed a hand around his neck. It was hotter than ever in the truck – but the summer was nearly over. Temperatures would be dropping again soon, and then the desert would begin its treacherous winter season, where at night the mercury would plummet and snow could fall.

He heard the shouts and radio signals coming in from the first wave of attack, and the doors of the truck he was in were thrown open and he was running with the others, keeping low, weaving. Then the call came over the radio that everyone was dreading.

"Medic, medic, inside the building. One casualty," he moved before the message had finished, following the instructions, knowing a man was with him, covering him.

"In there, Sir," a soldier pointed, face screwed up in disgust or horror.

Watson looked into the room, his own nose wrinkling at the smell. There was a man, chained to the wall, his clothes filthy, a bucket nearby which obviously served as a toilet, and little else. Watson let out a tiny breath of relief that it wasn't a casualty on their team he had been called for, and approached the man slowly.

"British Army, I'm a doctor. Okay? I'm going to help you," he kept his voice even, low, unthreatening.

The man cowered, arms up to protect his face, only the short chain padlocked around his neck keeping him from moving further away. He had a dirty blindfold on, and his clothing was stained with dirt and blood.

"Don't worry, don't worry, I'm here to help you," he glanced around to the soldiers standing by the door. "Are we safe? Is the building clear?"

"Sir, yes Sir," one of them answered.

Watson nodded, then knelt down by the man. He took off his pack and pulled out the scissors. "I'm going to cut your blindfold off. Relax, I'm just going to get it off you, okay?"

The man jerked away as the metal touched him, the links of the chain biting into the skin on his neck, but Watson kept a steadying hand on his hair. He cut through the dirty fabric and peeled it away from the man's skin, noting that it was encrusted with blood and sweat, and left lines of grime on the man's skin.

The man blinked his eyes open, squinting, even against the dim light in the small room.

"Okay, okay," Watson held up his hands, palms out, hoping it would be understood. Then he pointed to his kit and the red cross on it. "Doctor," he said. "Do you understand? I'm a doctor. I'll help you."

The man looked at him, then down to the bag, and finally nodded, lowering his hands slightly.

Watson turned to the men at the door again. "Get a crowbar – or bolt cutters, anything to free him from this bloody wall," he said.

Then he looked back at the man on the floor. ”Here," he unscrewed the cap from his water bottle and held it out. "Drink some."

The dark eyes looked at him, showing no sign of understanding. He lifted the bottle to his own lips, drinking a sip, then nodding. "Drink," he smiled and nodded, trying to be encouraging.

The man reached out very tentatively, and flinched away slightly as Watson moved forward, closing the gap between them. But he allowed Watson to pass him the bottle, and after a moment of hesitation he drank, gaze never leaving Watson's face, even as the water spilled from the sides of his mouth down his front.

"Easy, easy, there's plenty," Watson reached out and steadied his hands. "Do you understand me? Do you speak English?"

The man lowered the bottle and nodded slowly. "Yes," he said, voice hoarse and strained. "English."

Watson smiled, although he was slightly surprised. "Good, right, someone will be here any minute to get that chain off you. Until then, what can I do?"

He pulled a sterile wipe from a pocket of his pack and ripped it open, holding out to the man. "What's your name, mate?" he asked, as he reached for another.

The man didn't answer, but did clean his face a little, still staring at Watson.

"What's your name?" Watson asked again, wondering if the man was deaf and lip reading, or was lying about being English, and just using any phrases he could, without knowing what they meant.

"I don't...know," the man answered, voice so low it was almost inaudible.

"You...right. Well, I'm John. How did you get here?" he'd pulled on nitrile gloves now, so took the first wipe from the man, noting it was covered in grime and dried blood, and handed over the fresh one.

"They brought me, in a...van, I think."

John nodded. "Any idea who 'they' are?"

He shook his head. “Locals?" He answered, sounding unsure. "Don't know."

John moved closer, reaching for the man's head. "I'm just going to take a look here - this might hurt, but I don't mean it to, okay?"

He took the man's lack of movement as assent and very gently tried to push aside some of the matted hair, looking at a large cut across one side of his head. The man flinched slightly, but stayed still for the main.

"That's a nasty injury. Do you remember how you got it?"

A slight shake of the head was all he got in answer.

"Right, well, you come back with me, to the base, where we’ve got proper equipment, and we'll sort you out. Anywhere else that hurts?"

There was a silence, then the man looked up at him. "They kept asking questions. All the time. I didn't...know. Didn't understand."

John already had a fair idea of what the man had been through, but nodded anyway. "Doesn't matter now, you're safe with us."

A noise made the man flinch away again, his arms coming up automatically to protect himself. John turned to see someone walk into the room with bolt cutters. He pulled a large dressing from his pack and gently stuffed it between the padlock on the chain and the man's neck. "Try and just chop through that," he said, and put a hand on the man's shoulder to steady him as the heavy tool was carefully manoeuvred into place and the padlock cut with a crunch. He quickly unwrapped the chain from the man's neck, taking in the obvious bruises where the links had pinched and the places the skin was rubbed raw.

"Think you can walk?" he asked, glancing at the man's bare feet. "Just to outside, where the Snatch is?"

The man nodded, but as he moved John could see he was struggling, shaky muscles, along with all the injuries, making him very unsteady.

"Here, hold onto me," he said, hefting his pack back onto his shoulder and offering his arm.

There wasn't much strength in the grip, but the man made it, slowly hobbling across the floor, then climbing awkwardly into the back of the Land Rover.

"Well done. We'll have you sorted out in no time," John smiled, offering him more water, which he drank thirstily.

 

As they arrived back at camp the base commander was waiting for them. He looked the man up and down, then turned to John. "Well?"

"Not sure, Sir. He's English - I think, speaks English without an accent, anyway. Doesn't remember who he is, or anything else for that matter. Signs of torture, abuse. Says they asked him questions, but he doesn't remember anything, so wasn't much help. Got a nasty head wound - severe. Seems to have been largely untreated, and is old. Few weeks, at least. The rest of him's a mess, but I need to get him cleaned up before I can really assess him."

The commander nodded. "I'll get a search done, see if anyone's missing a man. What do you think, PMC? Or..."

"I really don't know, Sir. I'm going to get him cleaned up, maybe he'll remember something. Or there might be a clue to his identity in his clothing or something like that. I'll let you know, Sir."

He was given a quick nod, so he turned back to the man. "Come on, mate, not far now."

Once the man was sitting on a bed John put his kit down, ran some warm water into a bowl and fetched a cloth and towel. "Right, start off with a bit of a wash, so I can see what I'm doing. I'll fetch you some clothes to change into as we go."

The man nodded silently, so John headed for the door, surprised to find an armed guard on the other side of it.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Orders from Major Kerney, Sir. Until we know who this person is, Sir."

John pulled a face, but could see it was a sensible precaution. "Okay, as you were."

 

When he returned to the room he found the man topless, still wiping himself down with a wet flannel. His ribs were bruised and grazed, barely a patch of skin on him that wasn't discoloured. "You have been in the wars, haven't you?" he said quietly. "Want to tell me what happened?"

The man looked at him, then down to the floor. "I didn't know anything. They kept asking, and I didn't know. Don't suppose they believed me. Wanted to know about the English. About...the army, but...I didn't know anything. So..."

“Yeah," John answered. "I can see how well that went down."

"Am I army?" the man asked, looking at John.

"Do you think you are?" John replied, hoping the man might be remembering something.

He just shrugged though. "Maybe? Some things are...I don't know. Are we in Iraq?”

John couldn’t help but look slightly surprised. "No. Afghanistan. Did you serve in Iraq?”

“Af...we’re...what year is it?” The look on the man’s face was one of fear.

“Two thousand and nine,” John answered.

“Two...Jesus. Jesus Christ. And...we’re still...What happened? I mean, fucking hell, we’re still here?”

“No, no, not still here,” John assured. “You were in the Gulf War? Operation Desert Storm?”

The man looked completely lost, and shook his head mutely. “I...I...just don’t know. I don’t know.” He bit his lower lip, eyes filling with tears of frustration. “I don’t bloody know. I think...”

John put a gentle hand on the man’s arm. “The Gulf War ended. In ninety-one. You’re not still there - we’re not. Okay?”

The man nodded, a small, jerky movement, and John wasn’t convinced that the stranger believed him.

“Well we'll find out soon enough, there'll be records and everything. Do you know how long you've been held for? Anything that might help us track you down?”

The man shook his head, then held out his arm, still shaking, turning it to reveal a mess of scabs and half-healed cuts, some of which looked like they were infected, the lacerated skin oozing.

"I tried to...keep a tally, when they first...but they didn't like it. Did that, so I couldn't..."

John hissed through his teeth. "Right. Let's tackle that next, then." He fetched some saline and swabs and carefully began cleaning the wounds, trying to remove the dirt and dried blood without re-opening any cuts. He could see that whatever had been used had been too blunt to cut cleanly, and the skin was torn up, leaving jagged lacerations. Once he had cleaned out the worst injuries he taped a large sterile pad over the forearm. "Not much point in trying to stitch anything, I'm afraid. There isn't enough good skin to work with, and the wounds are too old, anyway. So we'll just work on getting rid of the infection, okay?"

The man nodded, so John moved his attentions back to the man's head.

He turned as someone else walked into the room, and smiled when he saw his colleague, Doctor Hannah Carter.

"Hey John," she called, putting some things down on the side and sorting out a few things. Then she turned, nodding to the man. "Hiya, Captain Hannah Carter," she introduced herself, holding out a hand.

The man shot a look at John, then reached out to take it. Instead of shaking, though, Hannah turned her hand at the last second, gently supporting the man’s palm. 

“Looks nasty,” she said, examining the last two fingers, both of which were swollen and misshapen.

John glanced down and grimaced. “Right, we’ll need an x-ray on those when we’ve fixed you up a bit more.”

Hannah nodded, releasing the hand. "What's your name then? Not one of ours, are you?"

"Ah, don't have a name yet," John answered, still trying to pick his way through the man's hair to see the extent of the head wound. "Retrograde amnesia, probably caused by this," he gestured.

"Ah, I see. Need the clippers?" she asked.

"Yeah, that'd be good," John answered. "Sorry, mate, going to have to give you a bit of a haircut. And I cant promise much of a style."

The man just nodded, wordlessly, as Hannah plugged in the clippers and handed them over. "From the op you went on?" she asked.

"Yeah," John answered, carefully cutting away at the hair, catching as many of the clumps as he could and putting them in a nearby dish, already full of dirty wipes and swabs.

"That's a bit better," he finally announced, looking at the square of shorter hair.

"You look like my old Labrador," Hannah smiled. "JayJay, he was called. Got hit by a car once, had a patch out of his coat just like that."

"It's a nasty wound," John said. "And you've no idea what happened?"

The man shook his head.

"Well, it is healing, looks like you did have an infection for a while though. Did someone treat you? When you were held captive?"

"Yeah, near the beginning. I think they wanted to sell me, or...ransom? But...I don't know. Then...the others didn't care, when they moved me."

John nodded. "Well, you're lucky they did, or it could have been a lot worse. And don't worry about not remembering things, it'll probably come, over time, if you're surrounded by familiar things."

"So we've no idea who you are?" Hannah asked. "No...clues, nothing you remember?"

The man shook his head, but John answered. "He thinks he might remember some things about the Army, but...well, it's all a bit hazy at the moment, isn't it mate?"

"Right. Well, I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to call you Jay, can't keep referring to you as 'mate' and 'him'. Is that okay?"

The man nodded and gave a small shrug.

"Right then, Jay, well, I'm going to find you some food, and get some rehydration fluids into you, too. See how you feel after that. John will keep sorting you out."

As she left John smiled. "You don't mind, being named after a dog?"

"Better than not having a name," the man answered. "Felt like...nothing, since...don't know who I am, what I am, just people shouting and...rather you called me something, makes me feel more...human."

John nodded, finally finishing with the head wound, and gently pressing his fingers against the cut on Jay's cheek, muttering 'sorry' when he flinched.

"Anywhere else hurt particularly?" he asked. "Need to get you out of those trousers and washed, really. Then you can get the new clothes on, and you'll feel way better, okay?"

The man stripped down further, and John could tell he was very nervous, so tried to be calm, firm and detached, giving simple orders, and being deft with his touches as he checked the cuts and bruises out.

"Now, I've got to ask you, did they assault you sexually in any way? Any pain inside, anywhere?"

Jay shook his head. “They gave me a few kickings. Nothing lasting.”

“Right, good. Well, finish cleaning yourself up - tell me if there’s anything else I need to take a look at. Then get yourself dressed again.”

Hannah returned, carrying a tray of food and more water. “Here we are. How’s everything going?”

Jay looked to John, his eyes wide and unsure.

“Yeah, fine, nothing that will have any serious lasting consequences,” John answered, trying to smile re-assuringly.

“You’re not seriously going to leave his hair like that, are you?” Hannah tutted. “Want me to finish off the buzz-cut he’s started?” she asked.

Jay gave a little half-shrug again, and reached up very tentatively to map out the shaved patch John had created in his greasy, matted, hair.

“I think it’ll be for the best.” Hannah continued. She uncapped one of the bottles of water and poured a sachet of rehydration salts into it, then shook it up and handed it to him. “I expect you to have finished that by the time I finish this.”

 

John let her get on with it, clearing away his supplies, throwing away the used swabs and wipes, and finally turning to the pile of clothing.

“Do you mind if I look through this?” He asked Jay. “Just to see if there are any clues...anything like that?”

Jay shook his head, dutifully drinking his water as Hannah gently removed stripe after stripe of hair.

John snapped on a new pair of gloves and lifted the shirt onto a spare bed. It was streaked with dirt and brown, and stank of sweat and urine. There was nothing in the pocket, so next he squinted at the labels in the collar and seam.

“Marks and Sparks. So...do you remember anything about the UK? Anywhere you can remember as...home, maybe? Any faces?”

Jay shook his head silently.

John continued picking through the filth-covered trousers - also Marks and Spencer - and then the man’s boxers, which he thought were from Sainsbury’s.

“Seems like you probably haven’t been here too long. I mean, all of these are brands from home. I’m sure we can figure it out, anyway.”

Hannah finished shaving the few stray hairs away from Jay’s ears, then looked at him. “Might be best if I start off on your beard - if you want to shave, that is. Don’t think one of the crap disposable razors we can give you will get through that otherwise.”

Jay nodded again, running the tips of his fingers through his beard.

 

Half an hour later, when Jay limped out of the small washroom, John would barely have recognised him. Losing the hair, beard, and dirt made him look years younger. His eyes seemed larger, and were strikingly dark. His smile was still nervous, but knocked another few years off him. He was a handsome man, and John was at once even more certain that someone would be missing him, and they would be able to find out where he’d come from easily.

“Right, off to X-ray next,” he smiled. “You’re getting the full tour today.”

______________

 

John squinted in the bright sunshine, watching as the base commander spoke to Jay.

They had tried, for days, to identify the mystery man. There had been rumours - seemingly promising - about some form of operation which had gone wrong near one of the outlying bases. But nothing had come of it. No one was missing. No one, it seemed, knew anything about it all, other than vague gossip, about spooks and the Government. Most people blamed the Americans, although others swore it had been a suit straight from the corridors of Vauxhall Cross.

So now, eight days after Jay had arrived, he was being loaded onto a transport plane, to be taken back to Selly Oak, where both his treatment and the investigations into his identity would continue.

John had spent many quiet hours talking with Jay, using his laptop to browse through countless pictures of the UK - famous landmarks, iconic images. But nothing had seemed particularly familiar.

The one thing they had discovered, with express permission from the base commander, and under supervision, was that Jay was familiar with various types of weaponry, and could comfortably strip down a weapon. John was certain, along with the other clues, that Jay was a soldier. But the small amount of investigative work he’d managed to do had come up blank. He’d begun to wonder if the man was SAS, or had been on some covert mission when captured, such was the wall everyone seemed to be coming up against. He had been assured, however, that once safely back in the UK, further investigations would be undertaken.

John stepped forward, holding out his hand. Jay took it, shaking it firmly.

“Take care of yourself, mate,” John said. “And all the best. Keep in touch, yeah?”

Jay nodded. “Thanks, for...helping. Sorry I...well, thanks. You did a great job, Doc.”

As the trucks left John had to turn away, the clouds of dust blowing into his face.


	3. Chapter 3

“I am sorry, Sir,” Anthea stood to attention on the other side of his desk.

 

Mycroft nodded, not entirely trusting his voice not to waver.

 

It had been over a month now. A month of hoping and waiting, and being suddenly, startlingly, ambushed by grief at odd moments.

 

The nature of his work - the secrecy that surrounded the projects he spent so many hours toiling over - meant that the enquiries regarding Lestrade’s whereabouts had to be conducted gently, quietly, and with the utmost care.

 

And they had all come up blank.

 

Intellectually, Mycroft knew how it must be. He knew that no one must ever, ever, suspect that he, Mycroft Holmes, might have any hint of a weakness - especially when that weakness - that man - could at this very moment be in the hands of the enemy.

 

It didn’t stop him wishing he could demand to return to that dust-ridden hell hole, and rip each village apart, home by home, until he found Lestrade. Dead or alive.

 

 

That night, on his own, he carefully wrapped the boxes of belongings in strong plastic storage bags, and put them in a far corner in his loft.

 

The guitar was the only thing which remained out, leaning in a corner of his office.

 

He ignored the glint of recognition in Anthea’s eyes the first time she saw it. To acknowledge her reaction would lead to examining emotions he didn’t feel at all comfortable with.

 

 

______________

 

**2012**

 

 

John glanced around, slightly wary, despite his best intentions. The car park was obviously a popular place for rough sleepers, and people moved around in the shadows, or lay in gaps on the kerb, away from the drains and wet from the recent rain. There was an air con unit or something throwing out heat from one of the surrounding buildings, as it was appreciably warmer in the car park than it was outside. Litter had gathered in one corner, blown there by the cold breeze which cut through the large openings in the concrete, so people huddled down low, out of its path, wrapped in card and blankets.

 

He stood a few feet back from Sherlock, who was deep in conversation with a girl John guessed to be in her twenties. John tried to fight the urge to go and investigate one person who was coughing, the sound hoarse and grating. His instinct, as a doctor, was to help, but he stuck close to Sherlock, just in case. There was nothing to stop anyone here going to the hospital, if they needed it, he told himself.

 

Glancing around he saw two more figures walking into the area, one with a rucksack on his back, the other with what looked like a sleeping bag wrapped around her shoulders. He looked away, not wanting to be caught staring, but then something about the man made him look back, frowning. He even turned slightly, squinting through the gloom.

 

It was the laugh that convinced him, the slightly husky laughter, and as the man turned to pat the girl on the back the light caught his face.

 

John found himself walking forward, the slight feeling of unease melting away.

 

"Jay?" he said, then immediately rolled his eyes at himself. "I'm sorry, I don't know..."

 

But he was cut off, mid sentence, and saved from trying to explain himself. "Doc? John?"

 

The smile was exactly the same, slightly lopsided, toothy, but making his face look years younger.

 

"Yes! God, I didn't think you'd remember me. Sorry, I'm sure no one else calls you Jay, you probably guessed who it was from that," John held out his hand, and it was taken and shaken firmly, Jay's skin dry and cold against his own.

 

"No, I’m still just Jay," Jay answered, shrugging.

 

"But, I mean, you must have found out...remembered?" The shake of Jay's head answered his questions. "But...what...how, I mean..." and then he looked down at the boots which had a hole worn through the leather on the top, and the dirty jeans and coat with rips in it, stuffing hanging out. "You're..."

 

Jay shrugged again, looking apologetic. "They said I might remember, but I haven't. Told me if I saw things that I recognised it might bring stuff back. But I don't even know where I'm from. London seemed...familiar, so I came here."

 

"But the hospital shouldn't have let you go! And what about a name, ID, how can you..."

 

"Ah," Jay looked down, not meeting John's gaze. "Didn't like the hospital. And I was okay, really, just..." he tapped his head. "So I went over the wall, came down here. Can't get a job, or a place to live, with no ID, so..." he shrugged again.

 

"Jesus," John shook his head. "I had no idea...I assumed...I thought you'd get help - I thought they'd find out who you were."

 

"Wasn't your fault, Doc," Jay said, giving a half-smile and looking John in the eye again. "You did everything you could. It's me 's got to do the rest and...it hasn't come back. Yet."

 

"Well...look, let me buy you some dinner, at least," John said. Then he noticed Sherlock walking away. "Hang on, just…Sherlock!" He held a hand out to Jay, then ran a short distance to where Sherlock had stopped.

 

"Have new information," Sherlock said, sounding bored. "Need to follow it up. You can stay, if you want."

 

"I just…he's a friend, I mean, I know him, I just…" John glanced back to where Jay was standing, watching them, but glanced away quickly when they both looked at him. "I was going to take him for something to eat."

 

"Mmm," Sherlock sounded bored already, and John guessed his mind was probably already working through whatever new information he'd received.

 

"Right, well, I'll, um…"

 

"Yes, I've got things to do. And I'm sure you two want to catch up. I'll see you back at the flat, John." And Sherlock swept away, leaving John to turn slowly back to Jay, apologetic smile on his face.

 

"So, um, come on, let me get you something to eat, and we will. Catch up, I mean," John gestured to the exit.

 

Jay looked unsure for a minute, then nodded and they fell into step.

 

"Nowhere black tie, though," Jay said, grinning. "My evening wear's at the dry cleaner."

 

John laughed, and once they were on the main street they ducked into a brightly lit cafe. The tables were formica, and all fixed to the floor with heavy bolts, the tea was stewed and came in chipped mugs, but John could see Jay didn't care, tucking into the large plate of eggs, toast, beans, sausages and chips as if he hadn't eaten for a week, which, John supposed, could be the case. He picked through his own food more slowly, signalling for another cup of tea for Jay when he finished his. He couldn't help but catalogue the changes in the man – thinner, and his stubble showed more grey, John thought. He hadn't removed his hat, but John imagined the grey, which had been a barely there three years before, must now have spread. He glanced at Jay's hands, noting the dirt and the still-misshapen bone in one finger.

 

Jay looked up at him, brown eyes wide, and straightened up slowly, making an obvious effort to slow his eating.

 

"So…out of the army?" Jay asked, still chewing a piece of toast.

 

John nodded. "Yeah, about eight months now."

 

"Wanted to rejoin civvy street?"

 

John shook his head, then paused. "Well, yes, but I was invalided out. Got shot." He gestured vaguely to his shoulder.

 

Jay's eyebrows rose, but he didn't ask any more, instead taking a large gulp of tea.

 

“So,” he continued, once he’d swallowed. “Heard a lot about Sherlock. What he does. You his...you work with him, do you?”

 

John smiled. “Yeah. I do. I mean - I didn’t mean to, but...well, a lot of people do things they don’t mean to, around Sherlock.”

 

“People say he treats them right. I mean, you know, not like we’re all criminals or something, just because we haven’t got a roof over our heads.”

 

John shrugged and nodded. “True. Or at least...he treats everyone the same. As if we’re all  stupid and incompetent.”

 

Jay grinned. “Yeah, I heard that too.”

 

“He’s not...well, you’ll have to meet him. He’s pretty hard to describe.”

 

Jay leant back, wrapping his hands around his mug of tea. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

 

“So...” John looked around. “I...um...”

 

“You’ve probably got better things to do, right? I need to go and find a spot for the night. Thanks for the food. Very kind of you.”

 

“It’s...I didn’t mean...Look, are you okay? I mean, is there anything I can do?”

 

Jay shook his head. “No, this was very kind,” he gestured to the empty plate in front of him. “I expect I’ll see you and Sherlock around, yeah?”

 

John watched as he left - wanting to stop the man, offer him more help, but he didn’t know how.

 

He swallowed down the last of his own tea, nodded to the man who stood behind the counter, and left, deep in thought as he returned to Baker Street.

 

 

Sherlock was already in the flat by the time John got back, spread across the sofa, looking relaxed.

 

“Thought you’d be out,” John said, going to the fridge for some juice.

 

“Case closed. Brother-in-law, who was also co-founder of the business. Petty infighting, money, the usual.” Sherlock waved a hand, dismissing the case. “Your friend - army?”

 

John nodded slowly. “Perhaps. I mean, probably.”

 

Sherlock perked up a little. “You sound unsure. You didn’t meet him in the army?”

 

John wondered how much he should say. On the one hand, Sherlock might be able to deduce far more about Jay’s past than anyone else had ever managed. But on the other, it was a huge breach of privacy.

 

The length of time he’d been silent had obviously piqued Sherlock’s interest.

 

“You were in the army. He wasn’t. So...you met him through your work. Treated him. But not in this country - why would you? So abroad. You met...”

 

“In Afghanistan,” John finished. “Yes. Look, don’t...he’s a nice bloke, yeah? Don’t...pry. He’s shy. And his life isn’t some game for you to play.”

 

“Why would it be? And...why didn’t you know...Oh!” Sherlock twisted, sitting up, staring at John. “He has no memory - or claims not to - hence you being unsure about his background. Fascinating.”

 

John sighed. “It’s...it’s not fascinating. It’s sad. He’s...lost. There are probably people who know him, who miss him - think he’s dead, for God’s sake. Family - kids, maybe!”

 

Sherlock scowled, and slumped back onto the sofa, but John could tell his mind was still going over whatever evidence he thought he had.

 

“I’m going to bed,” John announced.

 

 

Over the next few days, John found himself thinking about Jay far too much. Odd moments of the day - when he noticed it was raining, or saw a huddled form sitting in a doorway. When he was making his toast in the morning, or sitting in a cab watching the city roll by.

 

Sherlock noticed.

 

“Invite him here. I’ll talk to him.” He clearly read John’s expression with complete accuracy. “I won’t...it’s not a ‘game’, John. You clearly worry for him. The answer to his true identity might be staring you in the face.”

 

 

John felt nervous as they walked through the car park once more. People watched as they passed, and John tried to look for Jay, whilst not staring at any strangers.

 

He hoped, however, that Jay would see them, and come forward to talk again.

 

Sherlock spotted someone he clearly knew, and walked briskly toward her.

 

“There’s a man, living on the streets. Older, goes by the name of Jay. Know where he is?”

 

John would normally object to Sherlock being so brusque, but all he could think about was finding - and helping - Jay.

 

The girl just looked up at Sherlock, and raised one eyebrow.

 

Sherlock sighed, reached into his pocket and offered a scrunched up fiver.

 

“Ain’t seen him for two days. But he don’t like it inside when the weather ain’t so bad. Probably in the park somewhere.”

 

“Anything more specific?”

 

The girl shrugged. “Likes them fountains and stuff, Hyde Park. By the end of the lake, you know? All ponds and fountains. He goes there. Don’t know otherwise. What you want him for anyway?”

 

“He’s just an old friend,” John said, before Sherlock could say anything. “I wanted to talk to him, that’s all. If you see him, can you tell him John was here? Doctor John?”

 

The girl nodded.

 

As they turned to walk away she called out to them again.

 

“He ain’t in no trouble, is he? He’s a good bloke, Jay. Looks after us girls and never wants nothin’ for it. Not a creep, like some.”

 

John smiled. “No, no trouble. I wanted to try and help him, actually.”

 

She nodded again, and they made their way back out of the dimly lit car park and into the bustling streets.

 

 

It was another three days before they heard anything. John was letting himself into 221 when Mrs Hudson emerged from her flat. “Oh, Doctor Watson, there was a girl here earlier, looking for you. She said she had a message. Someone called Jay said they would be at the Italian Gardens.”

 

“Really? Brilliant - when was she here?” John smiled.

 

“Oh, a few hours ago now. Maybe I should have called your mobile telephone. Was it urgent?”

 

“No, no, that’s perfect. Thank you, Mrs H.” He turned to run up the stairs, then had a sudden thought. “Mrs Hudson - you don’t have any of those biscuits you made the other day, do you? Jay’s...well, he’s a bit down on his luck right now. I’d like to take him some, if you have any spare?”

 

Mrs Hudson beamed. “Oh, the poor man. I shall see what I can find.”

 

John smiled as he ran up to his room. Mrs Hudson’s drive to care for people was almost legendary - and the fact Sherlock hadn’t managed to exhaust it was impressive.

 

 

By the time he’d changed and was running back down the stairs, Mrs Hudson had a foil-wrapped bundle in her hands. “Here we are, dear. There’s some biscuits and some cheese scones in there. I hope that’s okay?”

 

John kissed her on the cheek as he took the package. “Perfect. You’re a complete angel, Mrs H.”

 

He set off at a brisk walk, entering the Park at Marble Arch and walking along the path, avoiding dogs and cyclists as he moved with far more purpose than most people.

 

As he approached the Italian Gardens he scanned the area, his step faltering slightly as he failed to spot Jay anywhere. Then, just before he reached the railings, a footfall behind him made him turn.

 

“All right, Doc?” Jay grinned his lopsided grin. “You looked like a man on a mission.”

 

“Jay - I was just...worried I might have missed you.” John held out the package he carried. “These are for you. Our landlady loves to bake and...well, I thought you might appreciate some.”

 

Jay smiled, opening the edge of the foil to look inside. “Tell her thank you. Very kind.” He rewrapped the food and swung his bag off his back, storing it carefully in a pocket. “There something you wanted me for?”

 

“Yes - well, I mean, only if you...look, shall we get a coffee or something, have a chat? There’s a place just up the road.” John gestured and Jay nodded.

 

 

Once John had brought them both a large coffee, and forced Jay to accept a panini as well, they sat in a corner and John tried to explain.

 

“Look, I don’t know how much you know about Sherlock - but he’s brilliant. He...he can see things, in people, that normal folk just don’t. Like, your past, your background. When I first met him, he knew...well, it was freaky, he knew so much. Just from the way I stand and...”

 

“You want him to do his magic trick on me.” Jay finished before John could.

 

“Would you? I mean, do you think you’d want that?” John asked.

 

Jay gave a small smile, then shrugged. “I suppose. Sort of...used to it, almost, not having a past. Makes you wonder...” he stopped, and pushed the foam on top of his latte around with a spoon. “S’pose I almost don’t want to know, because no one’s looking for me, are they? Seems...seems like I’m not missing much. But...”

 

“If we could...if we could find out who you are - a name, date of birth, then you could, you know, claim benefits, get somewhere to live, if nothing else.”

 

Jay shrugged again. “Worth a try, isn’t it?” he said, not sounding entirely convinced.

 

“Only if you want, but...it might help?” John tried to sound upbeat, but he could see Jay wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea. “Anyway, think about it. And if you want to, you can come round and have a chat with Sherlock.”

 

Jay nodded, immediately looking happier that John wasn’t about to drag him off there and then to be examined.

 

 

The talked a little about the recent cases John had been helping Sherlock with, the weather, and recent news and events. John had no idea what questions he could ask Jay about his days that would be appropriate, so awkwardly avoided the subject.

 

“So, our address is 221b, Baker Street,” he said. “You can...you know, pop round some time. Anytime, I mean.”

 

Jay gave a small smile. “And you obviously know how to find me.”

 

 

A week passed, and John tried not to get his hopes up about Jay ever calling round. He could see that it might be a daunting prospect, and could understand that to Jay, the life he now lived was all that he’d known. He wondered if there was anything he remembered - something bad, perhaps, lurking in the shadows of his mind, that he didn’t want to uncover.

 

Late on a Friday night, there was a knocking on the door of 221. John glanced at Sherlock, to see if he were expecting someone. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, so John dutifully got out of his comfy chair and headed down the stairs.

 

It had been raining steadily all evening, the cars swishing by on the wet streets, the water glistening on every surface.

 

The girl who stood outside was huddled in a dirty coat.

 

“You’re a doctor, ain’t you, mister?” she said, without introduction. “I mean, a proper doctor, for medicine?”

 

John nodded, instinctively looking her up and down for sign of injury.

 

“There was a bit of trouble, right? Some lads, they tried it on with my friend, can you come? She don’t want to go to no hospital, but she’d see you cos of she knows Sherlock and knows you’re mates. She says she’s all right, but Jay said she might have internal stuff. He said to get you.”

 

John nodded again. “Come in, I’ll fetch my bag. Where are they? Nearby?”

 

“Not very. I run here, didn’t I?”

 

John ran to his room, grabbing his medical bag, a torch and a blanket. After a moment of thought he also took out a waterproof jacket and a jumper, for the girl downstairs.

 

As he ran back down to her he held out the last two items. “Here, get out of those wet things, put these on. I’ll be outside, getting a taxi.”

 

He headed out into the rain, pulling his own coat on.

 

A minute later the girl was beside him in the taxi, giving directions.

 

They ended up outside an empty office block, which John guessed was now a squat. He paid off the cabbie and followed the girl to the back of the building, climbing through a hole in the fence. Various windows were smashed in, and the girl led him to one of them.

 

There were dim lights visible inside, as if someone was in there with a torch.

 

John clambered in the window, immediately hit with the smell of damp and dust. He followed the low murmur of voices into the small room next door.

 

Jay was sitting next to a girl who was lying on a pile of blankets and sleeping bags, another carefully wrapped over her along with a couple of coats. Jay had a water bottle and a few bloodied rags on the floor next to him, and was talking in a low voice to the girl and holding her hand.

 

“Hello,” John said, keeping his voice low and calm. “My name’s John. I’m a doctor. Do you want to tell me what happened?” He smiled at Jay, who had turned when he started speaking.

 

“He’s okay,” Jay smiled. “Friend of mine. He’s sound, yeah? He won’t do anything to you, I promise.”

 

The girl nodded, swallowing back tears. “Was some lads, they started hassling me, saying I should shag ‘em and when I said no they started punching me, kicking me, bastards. They was proper drunk, then Jay come along, seen ‘em off. I’m okay, honest.”

 

John glanced at Jay, who was still holding the girl’s hand. He realised there were smears of blood on his knuckles, and almost lost in the shadows on his face.

 

“Would you mind if I just checked you over? Your friends here are obviously worried about you. They can stay, if you’d rather?”

 

The girl paused. “Kim can stay. Not Jay.”

 

Jay patted her on the hand. “I’ll be just outside. You can shout if you want me back, yeah?”

 

The girl nodded.

 

Jay stood up and walked out into another room, while John moved to open his bag and retrieve his own torch, as the one on the floor of the room was weak.

 

He checked the girl over, moving swiftly, but thoroughly as he looked at various bruises and grazes, pressing on her abdomen here and there and listening to her chest.

 

“I think you’ll be fine,” he said. “But you must get someone to call me, or get to A and E, if you start feeling any worse, or if there’s any more swelling, anything at all you’re concerned about, okay? I’ll write down my mobile number, or you can send someone to 221b Baker Street, and ask Mrs Hudson there to call me, okay?”

 

The girl nodded.

 

“Can you stay together tonight?” John asked the girl he now knew was Kim. “Keep an eye on her?”

 

“Course, yeah.”

 

“Good.” John wrote his mobile number down and handed it over. “Don’t be worried about calling me. I really won’t mind. If you don’t have any money, just ring it and hang up, I’ll call back, okay?”

 

Both girls nodded, and John packed away his things, heading out to find Jay again.

 

“You okay?” he says softly, looking Jay up and down.

 

“Yeah. She going to be all right?”

 

“I think so. Seems like she was lucky you were nearby.”

 

Jay shrugs. “Heard her screaming. I knew she was somewhere close - seen her earlier on. You get to know people’s faces, where they sleep, who they know, even if you don’t know much about them.”

 

Jay was leaning back against a worktop, his hands curled around the edge of it. John shone his torch over Jay’s knuckles. They were bruised and bloody, but no serious damage. He switched the torch to the other hand, noting a deep cut.

 

“Want me to take a look at that?”

 

Jay shook his head. “Just the bastard’s tooth got me. I’m going to stay here with the girls. I’ll see you out.”

 

John wanted to stay too, but he knew a dismissal when he heard one.

 

“If she gets worse, get hold of me, okay?”

 

Jay nodded. “I will come ‘round, yeah? I’m just...if he can, you know, tell me about my past... Well, got to get my head round that. No one’s looking for me, are they? You’d think...you’d think if there was anyone, they’d be looking, right? I’ve checked, see, there’s places…I’ve been in, and they’ve shown me the photos, of missing people. And I’m not there. So…I’m not getting my hopes up, anyway.”

 

John nodded. “It’s fine. I understand.”

 

Jay gave a small huff of laughter. “Wish I did.”


	4. Chapter 4

It was the next week before Jay finally appeared at the front door of 221b. Mrs Hudson had let him in by the time John made it down the stairs. He smiled as he heard Jay thanking her for the baked goods she’d sent him, and bestow one of his rare, blinding, smiles on her. John was fairly sure Jay wouldn’t be leaving empty-handed at the end of his visit.

“Come on up,” John said. “You want tea or coffee?”

“Coffee, ta,” Jay followed him up the stairs.

“Take a seat. You want some food?” John offered, as Jay faltered, having seen Sherlock spread across the sofa.

“No, ‘m all right, thanks,” Jay answered, but John was fairly sure he hadn’t even heard the question properly.

He busied himself in the kitchen, glancing back to the sitting room to see Jay perched on the edge of one of the arm chairs, Sherlock regarding him like a hunter might look at prey.

John rolled his eyes. “No need for dramatics, Sherlock, he’s not a criminal!” he called out.

Sherlock took a deep breath.

“Army. From a young age. Probably 16. Married young. But then you left...why was that? Moved on. Bettered yourself, some might say. Why the Italian Gardens?”

Jay looked surprised at the question. “I...feels familiar. I like it there. Quiet, isn’t it? Never still, though.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. “Not from London. South West, probably Somerset, possibly Wiltshire or southern Gloucestershire. Spent many years here in the city, though. Not, however, around people with strong accents. More RP.”

There was a pause. John brought the mugs out - coffee for Sherlock and Jay, tea for himself.

“Married?” Jay asked quietly - so quietly John barely heard it.

Sherlock frowned. “You truly don’t remember anything?”

Jay shook his head. “Sometimes...sometimes I think...things happen, and, and it’s like, there’s something there. Something I...but I can’t remember, it’s like it’s out of reach. I...sometimes I think, maybe, I have...had...a daughter? I hear kids, in the street, and...”

“Quite possible,” Sherlock nodded. “Many relationships - especially when one partner is in an organisation such as the armed forces - results in offspring being produced early.”

“Offsp...yeah,” Jay said. “Guess so. But...” He just shook his head, and John thought he saw a look of defeat in his eyes.

He glanced at Sherlock - wanting to know more, but also wanting to spare Jay the pain of knowing there was someone - had been - and they weren’t now searching for him.

“Probably divorced,” Sherlock continued. “If you were away, and she found that difficult to cope with. Unlikely she cheated on you. Or if she did, she told you so. You have high moral standards, she would probably have been the same. Surprising, if they haven’t been looking for you, as it’s unlikely you would have taken no interest in the child. That said, the child would be an adult now. Adults are so much more complicated than children.”

Jay nodded. “I think...I don’t remember, but, maybe...maybe I lived near the sea. But I don’t know when. And...bits of London, I feel like they’re familiar, but I don’t know why. And then I just think...it could be from TV, or anything.”

“Why Jay? Why that name? Does it mean anything to you?”

“Oh, no,” John cut in. “He was called that by one of the other doctors. Not his choice.”

“Mmm, and another puzzle. Afghanistan. How did you end up out there? John says you were found in a remote area, no reports of anyone missing, no ransom demands made. Not army, not then. So what were you doing there? Any skills? A trade, learnt in the army?”

Jay shrugged. “Not that...I don’t remember.”

“Guns?”

John waited for Jay to answer, but the other man remained silent.

“He knew how to strip and clean an SA80. One of the reasons we thought he might be army, when we first found him,” John said.

Sherlock nodded silently.

“So...” Jay finally said, when the silence had stretched on for too long. “What do you think?”

Sherlock’s only reaction was the slightest movement of his eyes, looking Jay up and down.

“I...he’ll think about it,” John finally said. “He does that, you know, mulls over the evidence.”

“Yeah, of course.”

When Jay turned to look at John his eyes were wide, and he looked completely lost.

“I’m sorry, this was probably a terrible idea. I mean...”

Jay shook his head. “All helps, doesn’t it? I mean, one day I might...find out.” He sipped his coffee, hands wrapped tightly around the mug. “Not that I’d remember, probably, even if someone told me.”

John let out a silent sigh, wondering if he hadn’t just made things far worse.

_______________

 

Two weeks later John returned home, laden with shopping, to find Sherlock examining a man in the sitting room. John took little notice - he’d become used to odd things going on in the flat.

It was only as he reached up to put some rice in the cupboard that he glanced back at the man, who Sherlock seemed to be dressing. And froze.

“Jesus Christ! You look...”

Jay grinned back at him. His hair was short and slightly spiked. He wore a casual shirt tucked into well-worn jeans and brown leather shoes. “Doing a bit of a job for Sherlock. Apparently my usual look wasn’t quite what he wanted.”

Sherlock made a satisfied sound, then turned to pick up a heavy silver watch from the desk. “And this.”

Jay slipped the watch on, snapping the strap closed.

John moved into the living room, looking Jay up and down. He couldn’t believe the difference it made - the fresh clothes, the haircut and shave. You could easily assume Jay was a professional in the city - just casual enough to look reasonably fashionable, but the touches like the watch and the heavy silver chain John could now see around his neck, spoke of wealth.

“Don’t scrub up too bad, do I?” Jay spread his hands slightly.

“No - you look...very... What are you doing?”

Sherlock sniffed. “You remember everything I’ve told you?”

Jay nodded.

“And you have the map?”

Jay patted a pocket.

“And the invitation?”

Jay rolled his eyes slightly. “Yes, Sherlock. I’ve got everything, I remember what you’ve told me. I shall report back here, after the party.”

“Good. And for God’s sake, don’t get drunk. Now go.”

Jay grinned at John, threw a mock salute at Sherlock and shrugged on a leather jacket that John hadn’t noticed hanging on the back of a chair.

“See you in a bit.”

 

John watched him go, then turned to Sherlock, one eyebrow raised.

“He was the right age group.”

John’s eyebrow remained raised.

“Just a little job - I needed to know about the security in a certain art gallery. One which happens to be hosting a party tonight.”

“So you just...sent Jay in there, alone?”

“There’s no danger! He just has to go there, make some observations, refrain from getting drunk, and return to me here,” Sherlock waved a hand in dismissal of the subject.

“Right. Of course. Simple,” John muttered, turning away to finish dealing with the shopping.

“I am paying him,” Sherlock responded, sounding sulky. “And he agreed to it.”

“Yes, brilliant - a man who gets by...well, God knows how he gets by, because he doesn’t seem to beg. And you wave money in his face - of course he’s going to agree!”

Sherlock span abruptly. “He is a man used to action! He longs for purpose! I’m sure you can empathise.”

John didn’t answer, but he knew, somehow, that Sherlock was probably correct.

 

He stayed up, waiting. And at just before two in the morning, Sherlock moved abruptly from his position by the window, running downstairs in a whirl of dressing gown.

A few moments later, Jay appeared at the sitting room door, being ushered in by Sherlock.

“Well?” Sherlock asked.

“Here, as you asked,” Jay handed over the map, then slumped into one of the armchairs and began detailing other things he’d noticed.

“You’ve been drinking,” Sherlock said, eyes narrowing.

“Just two! Christ, it’d been more weird if I hadn’t touched a drop. Got all your info, didn’t I?”

“I specifically said you should not get drunk!”

“I’m not drunk! Christ. Look, I did what you wanted, done my bit. So I’ll get out of your way. Where’d you put my clothes?” Jay was removing the watch from his wrist and reaching for the catch on the necklace.

Sherlock pointed to a pile on the chair by the door.

Jay grabbed them and headed out of the room.

When he came back he was dressed in his usual scruffy, dirty clothes - the only contrast the sharp new haircut. John wished he’d thought to wash them whilst Jay was out - but then wondered if that might be too presumptuous. He made a mental note to ask, if there was a next time.

“Here,” Sherlock held out some folded banknotes. “Your observations were passable. I might need you again.”

“You know how to find me,” Jay replied, yawning widely. “G’night.”

“Night,” John smiled, watching Jay shrug his bag onto his back and descend the stairs, looking tired.

_____________

 

Sherlock - despite his grumbling and moaning - clearly found Jay an acceptable tool for his trade. John noticed that as Jay spent more time working for Sherlock he seemed to gain confidence, frequently arguing with Sherlock’s methods and reasoning. John enjoyed it - both seeing Jay find purpose in his life, and having an ally in his constant battle to keep Sherlock in check.

“You’re kidding me,” Jay said, when Sherlock pointed him toward a smart suit, hanging on the sitting room door.

“You’re Richard Benson. You need to read that file.” Sherlock pointed to papers on the kitchen table. “You’re divorced. You’re a car dealer. You went to school with the brother of the birthday boy. Don’t worry, brother can’t be there - last minute business trip. It’s all in the file.”

“Right…yeah, right.”

“I’ll make you some tea,” John said, watching Jay pick up the file.

 

A few hours later, after Sherlock had quizzed Jay thoroughly on the part he would play, and issued his ‘costume’, Jay appeared back in the front room of 221b.

“Not bad, huh?” He span around, showing off the dark suit, complete with a black shirt, gold rings and gold watch on show, hair spiked with gel.

There was more wealth on show this time, flashier, no subtlety.

“Yes. Good,” Sherlock walked around him. “Remember, don’t actually get drunk. And don’t go over the top. You’re not meant to be a buffoon.”

“I know, I know.” Jay ran a hand over his smooth chin. “You know, everyone thinks you’re pimping me out or something. Way I go back, haircut, shaved, all that.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed. “People cannot think beyond their own base instincts.”

Jay shrugged. “See you later then.” He winked at John, picked up the embossed invitation from the table, and left.

________________

 

After one such ‘job’, Jay returned to the flat completely covered in mud and dirt, and as far as John could tell, he had broken into the now-derelict head offices of a certain shipping corporation. His clothes were covered dust and grime, and his hair seemed to be full of cobwebs.

He was also smiling widely, and offered Sherlock a mobile phone that he’d apparently taken a lot of photographs on.

“Excellent,” Sherlock said, barely looking up. “I shall be in touch if I require further assistance. There’s money on the kitchen table.”

Jay flashed a grin at John and picked up the envelope.

“Wait, wait,” John said. “Have a shower, and borrow some clothes. You can’t walk about like that, for Christ’s sake. Look at you.”

Jay paused, looking slightly awkward. “I don’t mind. But…if it’d be okay? Never turn down a hot shower.”

“Of course, come on,” John retrieved a towel. “Give me your clothes, I’ll put them through the wash. You’ll have to wait for them to tumble dry. I’ll leave some jogging bottoms outside the door, with a t-shirt.”

A few moments later Jay reached out around the door, passing his dirty jeans, shirt and jacket, along with some very well worn boxer shorts and socks that were more holes than not. A few seconds later the shower started up, and John was pleased that Jay had accepted the offer, and not been too offended.

 

He found some tracksuit bottoms, knowing they’d be too short for Jay, and a t-shirt and jumper, and left them outside the bathroom door. Then headed to the kitchen to put Jay’s clothes in the washing machine.

 

A short while later he was sitting with a cup of tea, talking to Sherlock about the most recent case, and the evidence Jay had brought to them, when a familiar tread sounded on the stairs.

Sherlock sighed.

“Go away, Mycroft!” he shouted, just before the door swung open.

“Really, Sherlock. You do not yet know why I am here.” Mycroft’s nose wrinkled at the messy sitting room, but he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

John sank down further in his chair, and hoped that he wasn’t about to get caught in some huge bickering session.

It rapidly became apparent that Mycroft had asked Sherlock to find out some information, and Sherlock had decided not to. Or possibly he had done the work, but enjoyed winding Mycroft up too much to impart the information. John was never sure which.

For someone who claimed he disliked Mycroft’s presence, Sherlock certainly managed to work things so Mycroft came to 221b rather often, in his opinion. “Nonsense,” Sherlock would reply, when he pointed this out, though.

Just when it seemed Mycroft was going to give up, and return to try and get his information another day, the door opened once more, and Jay paused on the threshold.

“Sorry, didn’t realise you had company,” he said, awkwardly. “I’ll…” he gestured behind himself.

“No, no, come in, sit down. This is Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft,” John said. And then stopped, having caught sight of the most peculiar look of shock on Mycroft’s face.

“I…” Mycroft slowly stood, hands automatically moving to smooth his clothing. “Must…be going. Pleased to meet you…”

“Jay,” Jay answered, smiling and holding out his hand.

“Indeed,” Mycroft shook the hand, then nodded to John and glared at Sherlock, who was studiously ignoring him, with a look that seemed to John to be even more venomous than usual.

“Tea?” John offered Jay, trying to work out what had just happened.

“Thanks, if it’s no trouble.” Jay answered, sitting down, apparently unaware of the change in the atmosphere in the room.

 

Mycroft felt as if his heart was going to leap from his throat. He gripped the handrail on the stairs as he felt sweat break out on his forehead. He somehow managed to get outside, gulping breaths of fresh air in, and got to his car, almost falling into the back seat.

“Home,” he said to his driver, and quickly sent a text message to Anthea, ensuring she would also be at the house when he arrived.

 

He walked through the front door, hands still shaking, and saw Anthea, cool and calm as ever, waiting for him.

“I…God, Anthea, I think I’ve found him,” he said, barely able to get the words out.

“Found who, Sir?” Anthea moved to put his umbrella safely in the stand.

“Lestrade,” Mycroft said, voice hushed.

Anthea’s eyes widened. “What? Where?”

“Come,” Mycroft led the way to his office, and settled at his desk, calling up the CCTV feed from Sherlock’s flat, hoping it had not been disabled.

“There,” he zoomed in.

Jay was sitting on the chair, one leg curled under him, a mug of tea held in one hand, resting on his knee. He was smiling at John, as Sherlock ignored them both, busy on his laptop.

“Oh my God,” Anthea breathed. Her usual strict composure was gone, as she leant forward, her shoulder touching Mycroft’s. “It is…it is…I mean, you couldn’t be mistaken?”

Mycroft could hear her trying to pull together her emotions and thoughts.

“I…we spoke. He shook my hand. I couldn’t be that mistaken.”

“But he…what did he say?”

“No, nothing. He’s going by the name ‘Jay’. There was no…he did not seem to recognise me. And I mean, truly, no sign at all.” Mycroft’s words ended in little above a whisper, as he watched Lestrade on the sofa, laughing at something John had said.

“I’ll ensure he’s tracked, when he leaves,” Anthea said. “Perhaps you…should ask your brother. Or perhaps Doctor Watson, if that would be a more fruitful line of enquiry?”

_____________

 

John always felt a strong pang of guilt when Jay left the flat, heading out into the night to find a place to sleep. But Jay had firmly refused anything more than food and drink and the pay he had agreed with Sherlock. John accepted that they couldn’t allow Jay to sleep on the sofa indefinitely, and made countless other offers of help, which were always politely but firmly declined.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching Jay walk away into the gloom, then turned away, back to the warmth of the flat.

As he shut the door it hit something. He turned, ready to defend himself, until he saw it was Anthea, looking far less calm than she normally did. She wasn’t looking at him, though. She was watching the figure retreating down the road.

“What does he want now?” John asked wearily. “I mean, he was just here. No need for any…theatrics.”

Anthea fixed him with a hard stare. “How do you know that man?”

John let out a laugh. “Oh, I might have known. Why don’t you go and kidnap him, huh? Or is that where Mycroft is? Picking him up for an all expenses paid warehouse trip for one?”

Anthea’s hand closed around his wrist like a vice. “It is incredibly important that I know how you became acquainted.”

John frowned then, confused by the emotion in her voice - granted, she was hardly at the lip-trembling stage, but she had always seemed incredibly distant before, whereas the answer truly seemed to matter to her now.

“Why, he a threat to the nation’s security?” John tried to smile, but he knew it was a feeble effort. “You better come in,” he said, waving up the stairs.

Anthea was virtually fidgeting by the time they reached the sitting room, and it was making John uneasy.

“I…well, it’s going to sound a bit odd, really. I first met him - Jay - in Afghanistan.” John stopped as Anthea’s eyes widened. “I…er… I mean, when I was in the army. He was…well, we found him, one day. A hostage, I suppose, although he couldn’t…”

Anthea had her phone in her hand, and John watched as whoever she had dialled obviously picked up.

“Afghanistan. It is him. What do we…yes, yes, I agree.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Him?”

Anthea hesitated for a moment, then reached into her small bag. She pulled out a glossy but well-worn and wrinkled photograph.

John frowned down at it as he took it, then his eyes widened. The picture showed Mycroft, in a light tropical suit, with Jay beside him, looking younger, wearing chinos and a shirt, with a large black holster on one hip. “He…you…that’s…”

“That is Greg Lestrade, former personal security consultant to Mr Holmes. Who is…was…missing presumed dead,” Anthea said, a very slight tremor in her voice.

“Well…he…I mea..what now then?”

“Now,” Anthea settled on the arm of the sofa. “You tell me everything you know about him, so we can work out a way forward.”

_____________

Jay looked up at the stars, trying to decide if it would rain or not. The weather had been unseasonably warm, and he preferred sleeping out, if possible. But he wouldn’t risk it if it meant he be rudely woken by a rain shower. Not for the first time, he wished he had a bivvy bag, or a tarp he could make a shelter from. He wondered if he should spend some of the money Sherlock paid him on buying a decent one for the coming summer. He hated the hostels, but any decent sleeping spots were almost as well frequented. He knew he sometimes had nightmares, flashbacks, and woke up shouting. He hated waking others - it always caused problems that he didn’t want to be part of. He could usually find a hidden corner in one of the city’s many green spaces instead, and not risk either waking others or being disturbed by anything other than his own demons.

The street was quiet, and he wasn’t particularly surprised when he noticed the CCTV camera on a nearby building twisting on its mount to follow his progress. He knew he didn’t exactly fit in with the area, even when he was freshly showered and in clean clothes.

It wasn’t until the third camera started following him, as he turned down another street, that he began feeling uneasy.

____________

 

Mycroft couldn’t help but smile when he was sure that Lestrade had noticed the continued surveillance. He didn’t want to make the man feel uncomfortable, but he knew that the old Lestrade, the one who had watched his back for so long, would have noticed too, and done something about it.

As much as it broke his heart to do so, when Lestrade turned the next corner, Mycroft merely flicked to that camera feed, but didn’t move the camera as Lestrade walked out of shot, a small dark smudge, fading into the shadows.

His biggest question had been answered by Anthea’s phone call. It was definitely Lestrade. But the hardest question still remained - what could they do to get him back?

______________

 

John listened, amazed, as Anthea recounted the story of the day they had lost Lestrade. He knew it added up - the military background, the explosion, everything except one thought that nagged at the back of his mind.

“Why didn’t Sherlock recognise him?”

 

Sherlock glanced at the picture John shoved under his nose, seemingly uninterested. “I don’t know, I suppose he could have been hanging around Mycroft - I take no notice of his lackeys.”

"He was..." Anthea stopped, and took a deep breath. "Your brother employed Greg for years. He's been here, more than once."

Sherlock shrugged. "Unimportant. He clearly posed no threat and was of no interest. The same can be said of almost all of Mycroft's associates."

John shook his head. "Right, yeah, of course. Why would anyone matter just because they were...normal."

Sherlock smiled. "Oh, not normal. Clearly not! Amnesia? Fascinating. But back then, a dullard, doing Mycroft's bidding. Irrelevant.”

John moved the conversation to the kitchen before Anthea could kill her employer’s little brother.

 

For once, the next day, John was almost grateful when, as he walked home, Mycroft's car pulled up neatly in front of him as he began to cross a side street.

"Been wondering when you'd show up," he said as he climbed inside.

"Sadly I cannot dedicate my every moment to Greg Lestrade," Mycroft replied. "He is...whilst his situation is far from ideal, in no immediate danger or coming to any harm."

"Mmmm. Still, sooner he's off the streets the better. What's the plan?"

Mycroft sighed, and fiddled with a leather file on his lap. "I was rather hoping you might help with that," he answered. "As you are, now, possibly the only friend the man has. It would hardly do to...throw his past at him, with no support."

"He's mentioned that no one seems to be looking for him. I mean, I...well, I assume you looked? I can't quite understand how you didn't find him though, if you did look. Given your resources."

"It seems we were looking in very much the wrong places," Mycroft answered. "We never imagined he could possibly be in this country. I mean...well, it sounds rather fanciful, does it not? Amnesia? A chance meeting? And, indeed, we must tread carefully. For sometimes such an unlikely tale can be just that. And a former...employee, returning out of the blue? In my line of work one cannot allow oneself to believe in such coincidences."

"Ah. Right." John sighed. "You think...what? He's back to get you? He's been biding his time, on the streets...I mean, come on, I had no way of knowing I'd ever even meet Sherlock - no way of knowing I'd be out of the army, back here. No way of knowing we'd meet again. He didn't approach me, you know? I saw him."

"Still," Mycroft countered. "We cannot be too careful. Believe me, I most definitely do not wish to discover he is some form of double agent. And I would find it incredibly hard to give credit to such a theory, were it not for my intense dislike of such coincidences."

John sighed. ”So what about his family? Why aren't they trying to find him? He thinks he has...well, someone."

Mycroft didn't move for a moment. Then, instead of speaking, opened the file on his lap and passed a sheet of paper to John.

"Not all the details, you understand. But certain...important points, you might say."

John scanned the sheet, stopping abruptly at certain lines, re-reading them, to make sure he hadn't misunderstood.

"Oh, Christ," he said. "The poor... And now...Jesus."

"Quite." Mycroft replied, dryly.

John didn't know what to say, but didn't envy Mycroft the task of breaking the news of Jay's - Greg's - family to him.

The car came to a halt, and John realised they were on a residential street, and the house they were outside was presumably Mycroft's.

"Come in," Mycroft said. "I feel we have much to talk about.”


	5. Chapter 5

They sat in Mycroft's rather grand sitting room, with a pot of tea between them. The china was delicate, with a gold rim and a neat row of flowers painted upon it. After a few moments, Anthea joined them, although where she had appeared from John had no idea - the house had seemed deserted when they arrived.

"I think perhaps the best thing to do is first explain to Greg, on neutral ground, that we are aware of his true identity. Allow him to...well, have some control over the situation." Anthea said. "And, following that, attempt to keep him under some sort of surveillance. The prospect of discovering who he is may seem rather daunting at first."

Mycroft shook his head. "Surveillance would be almost impossible. He may not know why, or remember how he came upon his skills, but he has certainly not forgotten any of the vigilance, which once served us all so well."

"I don't think surveillance is necessary," John cut in. "Just support. I can stay with him - he can sleep at Baker Street. I expect, once the initial shock has worn off, that he'll just want to...talk. Or have space to think about things."

There was a silent conversation, as far as John could tell, between Anthea and her employer. John wasn't quite sure why, but he got the feeling that he was missing something.

"Is there...look, I know it's...it's good, nice, that you're looking out for him. But...is there something you're not telling me? I mean, he was your bodyguard, right?"

Another silence stretched, and this time it was Anthea who broke it. Before she had even begun speaking Mycroft already managed to look uncomfortable.

"He worked for Mr Holmes for a number of years. In fact, he was already here when I was given my job," Anthea said. "It could be...could be...there was an affinity, between us. Whilst we were three professionals, all doing our jobs, working and living in such close quarters, for three people who....perhaps...were what could be termed 'loners', brought us together, somewhat."

Mycroft sighed, resting his cup and saucer on the arm of the sofa and steadfastly refusing to meet the gaze of either of the others.

"I have had many staff come and go over the years, John. Some, I missed their skill, their knowledge. Never before have I missed them. Losing Greg was more like losing a family member than an employee. And now we have the prospect of getting him back. And the fear of acting clumsily, causing him more harm than has already befallen him, I really can't express how heavily it weighs on my mind.”

________________

 

John walked toward the Italian Gardens much more slowly than the first time he had met Jay there. His hands were deep in his pockets, and he was trying not to overthink how their conversation might go.

As such, he didn't register someone falling into step with him, until he received a friendly nudge on the arm.

"You look miles away," Jay - Greg, John corrected himself once again, said.

"Hi, yes, sorry, I was. I mean, well, how are you?"

Jay frowned. "What's up?"

John mentally scolded himself for being so clumsy. "I've got some...news. Was hoping we could have a bit of a chat."

"News? You're not making it sound very appealing, mate."

"No, sorry. I mean, it's not bad, or...well, sit down, I'll tell you, you make your own opinion on what it is."

Jay sat on the end of a nearby bench, hands in his pockets, and John noticed he didn't take the bag off his back, as he usually did when they met.

"I...well, this might sound rather odd, but there's someone who...recognises you. Knows who you are. And...well, they told me and...well, there we go, really. I mean, if you...want to know, about yourself, I can...they can, rather, tell you. That's it, really."

Jay stared at him, blankly.

"Um...I mean, you don't have to? Or not right now..." John started, after the silence had gone on far too long.

"No. I mean, just...they recognise me?"

"Well, they know you. Knew you. Before...and, you were...friends, I would say. And..."

"It's Sherlock's brother, isn't it?" Jay said.

"Err...yes," John frowned. "You recognise him?"

Jay shook his head. "Just...his voice, I think? I don't know. There was something about him, something...but you know, I do that sometimes, and then I think I'm just imagining it. Try to ignore it now, really. No point getting my hopes up, is there? Probably just seen something on the telly or...well, wishful thinking, maybe?"

"Well this isn't. Mycroft...look, he's told me your name. Can I...would you like to know?"

Jay nodded.

"Greg. Your name is Gregory Martin Lestrade. But you went by Greg. Or Lestrade."

"Greg?"

John nodded.

Greg laughed. "That just....doesn't feel like me. I've been Jay for so long...I...Greg? Really? I always thought…it’d be like a lightbulb moment, you know? Like…Yeah! That’s me! Greg…Greg just sounds…like someone else.”

John nodded. "Well, I think you went by Lestrade more, except maybe to Mycroft and Anthea?”

"Anthea? Mycroft's...wife?"

"No, no, his...sort of...PA. Except rather more than your normal PA."

Greg nodded. "And how come they know me? Work?"

"Yes. Mycroft employed you. They'd really like to meet you, if you...wanted to? I mean, meet you again."

Greg nodded again, with more certainty. "Yeah, I would."

 

John hailed them a cab for the journey to Mycroft's, and noted that Greg's leg didn't stop jiggling for the entire journey, as he bit the skin around his fingernails and ran his hand through his hair, then smoothed it back again, repeatedly.

"There's no pressure," John assured him. "If you want to leave any time, just say."

Greg nodded, the movement too quick, too skittish, nothing like his usual relaxed demeanour. "This'll sound like a stupid question, no doubt," he suddenly said. "But do you think I'll like me?"

John almost laughed. "I think...I don't see why you wouldn't."

Greg gave a small smile. “Never know. I could’ve been a murderer or something. Though s’pose you're still here, talking to me, aren't you?”

John tried to smile reassuringly, although in the back of his mind he wondered what duties Greg had carried out for Mycroft.

 

When they arrived at Mycroft's Greg looked up at the tall townhouse. "Always liked these streets," he said. "Never knew why. Don't think I could've afforded anywhere like this."

"Well, I think, from what Mycroft said, that you might have lived here, for a while. Or somewhere similar. Maybe that's why?" He rang the doorbell and it was quickly answered by Anthea.

John could see the expression on her face wavering as she looked at Greg.

"Greg," she finally said, in a soft voice.

"Apparently," Greg smiled. "Anthea, I take it?"

Anthea nodded. "Come in. I'll get you a coffee. Mycroft is in the drawing room."

John was fairly sure that Greg didn't even notice that he headed directly to the correct doorway, with no indication from Anthea.

"Greg," Mycroft said, looking as nervous as John had ever seen him.

"Yeah, apparently so," Greg repeated. "Still...doesn't quite fit right, got to say."

"Ah, no, I...no. Please, sit down," Mycroft gestured. "I do understand this must be rather...well, overwhelming."

Greg sat, putting his bag down by his feet. "Yeah. A bit. Although seems like it's probably harder for you, to be honest."

Mycroft gave a small smile. "Astute as ever, at the least."

"So," Greg said, as Anthea appeared with a tray of hot drinks and some biscuits. "Thought you looked a bit odd the other day, at Sherlock's. Turns out you really had seen a ghost, John tells me."

Anthea and Mycroft exchanged a look.

"Yes, yes, it did seem that way," Mycroft answered. "When you...I mean, we did look, you understand, we didn't just leave you for dead."

Greg waved a hand. "Didn't imagine you did. Don't worry. And I don't remember anything, much. Only just remember being out there at all, really. Well, until John. That's a bit clearer. But even that..."

"Yes. Indeed. Would you like to know more?" Mycroft offered. "Or...well, there is much to talk about, but only as you wish to do so."

Greg shrugged, looking a little nervous. "John said you were my boss."

"Indeed, yes. You were employed as my personal security advisor. You accompanied me on many of my business trips, meetings and the like, all over the world. You lived here, in a small self contained flat, which is upstairs."

Greg nodded. "And where did you find me the first time?"

"Ah, well, you had been in the security industry for some time, and were highly recommended. I took an interest in your work for some time before offering you a trial position with me for a few months. You excelled."

Greg looked at john. "John here thought I was army. Was I? Or just security?"

"You were in the armed forces. You joined at 16.”

"Sherlock said I joined young. Said he could tell."

"Yes. He does share the family...interest, in putting together the clues people present about themselves."

"Said I was married young too."

John almost felt the silence fall.

"Indeed you were." Mycroft took a deep breath. "I am afraid, at this point, that I am not the bearer of good news."

John couldn't read the expression on Greg's face, and was incredibly glad he wasn't in Mycroft's place.

"I am afraid that your wife and young daughter both lost their lives in a house fire. You were away, overseas, with the army, when it happened."

All eyes in the room were on Greg. None of them expected to see him give a wry smile, then shake his head. "I don't...should be bloody glad I don't remember that, shouldn't I? Don't remember that, don't remember them." He paused, and John could see a slight tremor in the hand he wiped over his face. "You could've just told me any two people in the world had died, really."

Anthea shifted in her seat, and John could see that her eyes were glistening with unshed tears.

"I...I suppose it was better, was it? For work like I did? No one waiting at home? No one I was leaving for weeks on end, going round the world with you?"

Mycroft gave a small nod. "It is true that the work we did does favour those who have few ties."

Greg blew out a long breath. "This isn't going quite how I thought," he admitted. "Can I...do you know anything about them?"

Mycroft reached for a file which sat on the coffee table, but Greg held a hand up. "Not now. I don't want to know right now. I just...wanted to know if you did, when I'm ready."

"There is limited information," Anthea said. "And there is a photograph. Whenever you wish to see it, you only have to say."

Greg nodded.

“Would you…would it help to see your old rooms?” Mycroft asked. “They are unoccupied tonight.”

“Um…I suppose, maybe I’d remember something?” Greg answered.

“It’s right this way,” Mycroft stood and brushed himself down, removing any minute wrinkles from his suit.

John moved to follow, but Greg held his hand out. “It’s all right. I’d like…a moment with Mycroft, if you don’t mind?”

John nodded, but Anthea stood, giving Mycroft a look.

“I…I’m afraid I will have to insist on Anthea accompanying us,” Mycroft said awkwardly.

Greg looked genuinely confused, then glanced at Anthea and nodded. “Can’t be too careful, right?”

“Something like that,” Mycroft agreed.

Greg turned to the wall, putting his hands on it, spreading his stance slightly. “You can search me.”

“I really do not think that…”

Mycroft was cut off by Anthea stepping forward and efficiently frisking Greg.

She gave a short nod to Mycroft once she was done, and John could see Mycroft looking rather awkward.

“It’s simpler this way, isn’t it?” Greg asked. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“I…suppose it is,” Mycroft admitted.

 

They headed up the stairs, and Mycroft led the way to the small self-contained flat. Anthea followed, but stayed outside the door.

He stood back as Lestrade stepped inside, glancing around.

“If you have any questions…” Mycroft started.

Greg turned, looking around the small sitting room. “It…it is, sort of, familiar,” he finally said. “I can’t explain it. Like, not like I’ve been here, but…almost like I’ve seen it, somewhere? I don’t know. How long did I live here for?”

 

After another hour or so, John finally decided that someone had to bring the evening to a close.

“Greg, if you want, you’d be welcome to stay with me and Sherlock tonight. I…we just thought maybe it’s for the best, that way, if you want to talk…”

“Thanks,” Greg looked around the room. “I think I’d rather…” he waved a hand to the outside world.

“I’d…really prefer to know you’re safe with John,” Mycroft said softly. “I realise you have…fended for yourself, for many years, but, in light of what you’ve learned today, I feel it would be better if you had someone who understood the situation.”

“We don’t have to talk,” John assured. “But…”

“Yeah, okay then,” Greg agreed. “Thanks.”

 

At Baker Street John found some spare bedding and arranged it on the sofa, trying to keep an eye on Greg as best as he could.

“You know where my room is, right? Just come in if you need anything.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Greg answered.

He’d been practically monosyllabic since they’d left Mycroft’s, and John wished he knew what was going on in the man’s head.

“You be all right?” he finally asked.

“Yeah, yeah, fine. Thank you.”

“Sherlock might disturb you…sorry. He’s, well, you know what he’s like. He might forget you’re in here or something.”

“It’s fine, it’s your house.”

John gave a small smile, and finally left Greg to it.

 

In the middle of the night he awoke, and lay silent in his bed for a minute or two, wondering if something had woken him. Eventually he decided to get up and fetch a glass of water - and check on Greg.

He didn’t know if he was surprised or not when the sofa was empty, blanket folded neatly on the end of it.

He went to the window, which was partly open, and looked out into the deserted street. He sighed, as the only thing moving was a few cars, lights casting wild shadows across buildings. Then he sniffed. Cigarette smoke.

He crept down the stairs to the front door, which was pulled closed, but not latched. He opened it to see Greg sitting on the step, a small roll-up held delicately in his fingers.

“Sorry ‘f I woke you,” Greg said, so quietly John could barely hear.

“You didn’t,” John assured. “You okay?”

Greg shrugged. “Don’t know what to think.”

“About everything Mycroft said today?”

John pulled his dressing gown around him and sat down next to Greg.

“About the future,” Greg answered.

John blew out a breath, and Greg took a drag on the cigarette.

“I mean, now I know…where does it leave me?”

“Well, we can sort out confirming your identity to all the authorities - Mycroft can do that. He’s…well, he knows the right people. Then…I suppose then you can get benefits, somewhere to live, a job?”

“Mmm. Cos you hear about people with no background just falling into jobs all the time, eh?” Greg said. “Dunno. I suppose it’s scary, isn’t it? Being no one, there’s no pressure, is there?”

I…suppose not.” John agreed.

Greg finished the cigarette, crushing the butt onto the step.

“Come back indoors,” John said. “Have a cuppa.”

Greg nodded and followed him back up the stairs.

“I thought you’d left,” John said, as he put the kettle on.

“I thought I was going to,” Greg admitted. “But…didn’t seem fair, on you. Doing all this for me just to have me run out on you.”

“I…well, I’m not sure I’d exactly understand, but…I wouldn’t blame you.”

Greg smiled. “Thanks.”

________________

 

The next morning, at eight in the morning, John’s mobile rang. He groaned, rolled over in bed, and blinked at the screen.

“Mycroft.” he answered.

“Ah, John. Glad you were awake,” Mycroft said, sounding far too cheerful.

John grunted.

“Was Mr Lestrade attempting to leave last night?” Mycroft asked.

“What? Err…no, I don’t think so, not really. Didn’t have his bag with him. Just wanted a smoke and some space I think.”

“Mm. Indeed. What are your plans for today?”

“Um…don’t know. No offence, Mycroft, but I’m not even out of bed. Not really up for giving you my entire itinerary yet.”

“Ah. I see. Well, please tell Greg that if he calls, I can make myself available, should he have any further questions about yesterday.”

“I’ll do that, yeah. Good bye, Mycroft.” John hung up, wondering what he was going to do with himself - and Greg.

 

When he went downstairs, Greg was still fast asleep, tangled in the blanket, curled up on the sofa.

John headed for the kitchen, and, as quietly as possible, made himself and Greg a coffee, and stuck some bread in to toast.

When everything was ready he put it all on the coffee table and gently shook Greg’s shoulder.

Greg jumped awake, blinking up at John, then visibly relaxing.

“Sorry,” he rubbed his face. “Didn’t hear you.”

“I made some breakfast, and some coffee,” John gestured.

“Cheers. Sorry, Sherlock woke me up earlier, guess I’ve not had somewhere quite this comfy to sleep for a while.”

John smiled. “Didn’t mean to deprive you. You can get some more sleep after breakfast.”

Greg sat up, reaching for the coffee. “Might do, thanks.”

 

John let Greg sleep on for a bit, doing a few chores and updating his blog, before they were both disturbed by the doorbell going.

John ran downstairs, and opened the door to see Mycroft.

“Wasn’t expecting a personal visit,” John observed, stepping back to allow Mycroft in.

“I am sorry. I just…As you can imagine, this is all weighing very heavily on my mind.” Mycroft stepped inside, and gestured upwards. “How is Greg this morning?”

“Tired,” John answered. “But okay. A bit confused, a bit lost.”

Mycroft nodded sharply.

“Go on up. He might be in the bathroom though.”

 

Greg looked up as Mycroft walked into the room, and gave a small smile.

“Greg. I’m sorry, John told me you did not have a…restful night.”

Greg shrugged. “Just a lot to think about, isn’t there?”

“Indeed.”

“John said, maybe you’d help, giving me back my ID. I suppose, if I’ve got that, then…well, maybe I could find somewhere to live. A job. I mean, I know I’m not…well, I don’t know who’d want me, but it’d be something, wouldn’t it?”

“It…I can certainly help you to regain your identity documents - birth certificate, passport, perhaps even your driving licence, if appropriate?”

Greg gave a small smile. “Not sure I’d remember how.”

“It is a skill which can be re-learned, I’m sure,” Mycroft smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way.

John arrived back in the room with mugs of tea, pushing one into Greg’s hands.

“Any idea of what sort of thing you’d like to do?” Mycroft asked. “I mean, you have…you had many skills, and from what I can see of you work with Sherlock, you have retained them.”

Greg shrugged. “I don’t feel…” he sighed and shrugged again. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t know. I guess I’ll ask around. John said he’d help me on the computer.”

“Of course,” John said. “Helping out and, you know, basic skills you’ll probably need.”

“I find myself…unexpectedly available today,” Mycroft said. “I wondered if the two of you would perhaps like to return to my house, to discuss things further, to work some things out?”

Greg looked at John. “Yeah. I mean, John doesn’t need to come, if you’re just…trying not to scare me.”

“I…assumed you would perhaps like some support, yes,” Mycroft admitted.

“I don’t know, really,” Greg admitted. “Can I just go for a walk first?”

“Of course!” John answered before Mycroft could. “You’re a free man, Greg. We’re only trying to help.”

 

Mycroft watched Greg walk down the street, hands dug into his pockets, before turning to John.

“You know they tortured him?” John said. “They tried to get him to tell them secrets, when he didn’t even know his own name.”

“I…suspected,” Mycroft answered.

“When we found him, he was terrified of us.”

Mycroft sucked in a breath. “We did everything we could, to find him. You have to understand, in my position, we could not give away his identity, or my own, or, in fact, make it obvious to anyone how his disappearance could possibly impact upon my life.”

“Right,” John said, not sounding convinced.

“Greg understood his position when he began working for me,” Mycroft said, slightly defensively. “He was a professional.”

John sighed. “Yeah, sorry, I don’t mean to… it was just hard, seeing him like that, and now…I feel responsible for him.”

“As, I assure you, do I,” Mycroft said in a low voice.


	6. Chapter 6

Lestrade walked into Mycroft’s house, taking more notice of his surroundings, willing himself to remember details, recognise things.

“Shall I fetch some tea or coffee?” Mycroft offered.

“No, I’m fine, thanks. Can I go back upstairs, have a look around?”

“Of course, go ahead.”

Greg walked around the small rooms, looking out of the window, finally standing over the desk, staring down at the marked surface.

He heard Mycroft walking up the stairs and turned.

“Was this desk over there?” he asked, gesturing to the window.

Mycroft beamed. “It was. You preferred to be able to see out of the window than look at the television.”

“Yeah,” Greg nodded, then spotted what Mycroft was holding. “And that’s…”

“Yours,” Mycroft held out the guitar.

Greg took it hesitantly, turning it in his hands.

“I took the liberty of fetching some other items from the loft that you…that were left behind, when you…”

Mycroft gestured to the bedroom, where some clothes, books and other items were neatly spread across the bed.

Greg walked in, looking at some of the things, but shook his head. “It doesn’t…it’s just like looking at someone else’s stuff.”

“Indeed. Obviously you are free to take any of it. The clothes…well, they have all been laundered and stored correctly, but…fashion marches on,” Mycroft gave a small smile. “They may not be quite as current as you would like.”

“Fashion…” Greg paused, then looked at Mycroft. “Fashions change, but style remains. You used to say that, didn’t you?”

Mycroft was still for a moment, eyebrows raised. “I…yes, indeed, when either you or Anthea questioned my need for a new suit - or the replacement of an old suit, I should perhaps say.”

Greg leant the guitar against the bed, and touched a few items, but didn’t really engage with them.

“You know,” Mycroft started, hesitantly. “This was…is your home. When you were injured, I mean, if nothing had happened, we would all have returned here, once again. Work would have continued, the three of us.”

Greg gave a small smile.

“When we returned from such trips,” Mycroft continued, “We would usually share a meal, on the first night home. Often take-away, as there would be no suitable food in the house.”

“Right, yeah.”

“So I was wondering if you would like to do that, this evening.”

Greg looked unsure, but then nodded. “Yeah. With Anthea?”

“Indeed. It may have taken far longer than anyone would have wished…but you are now home, from the mission.”

“It…doesn’t feel much like home,” Lestrade said. “Who lives here now?”

“No one. The nature of my work has changed. I am more likely to be bored to death around a meeting table than shot at, these days. I still have security, obviously, but no longer close-protection.”

 

That evening they sat downstairs, around the kitchen table, Anthea doled out portions of curry and popadoms, whilst Mycroft poured them all a beer.

“To you, Greg,” he said, holding his glass up.

“To the future,” Lestrade replied.

“To both of those,” Anthea smiled. “And to having you home.”

 

“You know,” Mycroft said, after a pause in conversation when they all tucked into the food. “This is still your home. And…you would be welcomed - more than welcome, I mean, to return here. With no obligations, nothing. I just cannot bear to think of you, out there, when your bed sits in here, empty.”

Lestrade stopped chewing and stared at Mycroft. “Thanks. I’ll…well, thanks. I’ll stay for a bit. I mean, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but…we’ll see how it goes, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course, as I said, no obligations. But with the weather turning, I simply wouldn’t forgive myself if you were out there.”

“It’s not always that bad, you know,” Lestrade ventured. “I mean, sometimes. You get to know good places. Who throws out decent food, and when. Who’s going to give you a cup of tea for free. Which places to avoid because it’s a shortcut for drunks or whatever. It’s a different side to the city, but it’s a sort of community, in a way. And we look out for each out there.”

“I…I’m glad. I’m afraid I find it hard to imagine, surviving like that. I have always been privileged, and I’m sure I would not fair as well as some of a more practical nature.” 

Lestrade shrugged. “You learn fast. You have to. That’s just how it is.”

“So how did you get back here?” Anthea asked. “I mean, we never would have imagined - when we were searching for you - that you would have managed to get back to England.”

“Was John, really,” Lestrade mopped up some of his curry with a naan bread. “He stuck up for me, on the base. Said he was sure I was a soldier, and once they decided they couldn’t do much for me out there, I suppose they thought they had to bring me back.”

“So you returned on a military flight?” Mycroft asked.

Lestrade nodded. “Under guard. Straight to Selly Oak, the ward there. They did some scans, on my head, treated me for a few things, then found out my fingerprints weren’t on the army records. I didn’t really fancy it then - didn’t seem like it’d go my way, whatever was happening, so one day I just walked out. I mean, they’d put guards on me, but it wasn’t hard to get away. Stayed up there for a while, but I felt like London was where I might recognise something, so I got down here.”

Mycroft nodded, smiling at the thought of Lestrade easily giving his guards the slip.

“I have no doubt that your prior training was far, far superior to theirs.”

“So…I did what, just…was your human shield, then?” Lestrade asked.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Mycroft responded, flashing a glance at Anthea. “You planned our movements, sorted out any issues locally, if we were abroad, found us transport, accommodation, guides. You advised me on threats, on local unrest, on everything pertinent to my security wherever we found ourselves.”

Lestrade looked slightly surprised, but nodded.

“He forgot the most important part,” Anthea put in. Mycroft turned to her, one eyebrow raised in question. “You kept him company. You did the crossword together, you beat him at chess.”

Mycroft smiled, and dipped his head in an attempt to hide it. “That is true. The travelling, and the extended stays in foreign places were made far more enjoyable by your….ability to converse, and share simple past times. You were most definitely not all brawn and no brain, as the saying goes.”

“So…” Lestrade sat back in his chair, stretching his legs out. “What did I do wrong? Because it obviously didn’t go to plan that day.”

Anthea looked at Mycroft, and saw the flash of distress in his eyes.

“You…you did nothing wrong. You warned me, and yet I insisted we go.”

Lestrade drank a small sip of beer. “I can’t believe you would insist we go anywhere just for a jolly, not in the middle of a war zone.”

“I…well, no, indeed. But nothing changes the fact that you were aware of the dangers, you warned me - we could have postponed the journey. We did not, because I overrode your advice. And you suffered the consequences.”

Lestrade glanced at Anthea, as if gauging her reaction.

“Mmm. If it’s not too forward, seems like you’ve done plenty of suffering. And you’re still beating yourself up over it, even now.”

“It was my choice! Were it not for your quick thinking we would all have been injured - captured, if not killed. However, in saving the lives of others, you were…the vehicle exploded, you were caught by some debris. We…they believed…”

“You got out of there. Because you thought I was dead, or near as damnit.”

“We immediately arranged for a search and rescue team.”

“You did whatever was right. In fact, you probably tried to do things which were dangerous, and unnecessary.” Lestrade looked at Mycroft, and it was an expression Mycroft knew well - assessing, calm, taking in all the information available. “You probably tried to use your influence to get the army to search for me or something. You probably wanted to put your own safety at risk. For someone you thought was dead.”

Mycroft swallowed, then cleared his throat. “What…what makes you think that I would do any such thing? We have channels - clear channels, and we do not compromise our security in such ways.”

“Then why am I sitting here now, with free run of your house? Earlier on I could have got in your office. You let me go upstairs alone.”

The look which passed between Anthea and Mycroft spoke volumes.

“You did not, though,” Mycroft finally answered.

“No. I didn’t. But it shows me your judgement can be clouded, by those you feel close to. And that’s dangerous.”

“That’s human,” Mycroft shot back.

“And humans are dangerous,” Lestrade replied. “This sort of business doesn’t allow for much emotion, does it?”

“Your memory may be missing,” Mycroft said softly. “But your astute analysis is not.”

 

That evening, after Lestrade excused himself and headed to his new room, Mycroft moved into the kitchen, and leant on the worktop. He knew Anthea was behind him, so spoke without turning around.

“Are we doing the correct thing, my dear?” he asked softly.

Anthea sighed. “I think we are. He may disagree.”

“Why are human beings so impossible to help? Why can they not put aside pride, and allow what assistance is offered to them?” Mycroft asked.

“You tell me, Sir,” Anthea replied. “But I think you’re doing him a disservice. He is accepting help. What would you do, in his position? He still doesn’t know what we might expect of him. He’s taken the bed, and a roof over his head. I think that’s a pretty big deal.”

“I…I imagine, if I were in his place, I would also be conflicted,” Mycroft agreed.

“It must be quite a shock. I think he’s taking it remarkably well.”

Mycroft sighed, and reached into the cupboard for a crystal tumbler. Anthea correctly read his actions and headed into the sitting room to retrieve the decanter.

 

_________________

The next morning Mycroft awoke, showered and headed downstairs just after half past seven. He was surprised to see Anthea and Lestrade already sitting at the table, talking softly, cups of coffee in hand and plates with only a few crumbs left on them.

“Morning, Mycroft,” Lestrade smiled.

“Good morning. I am sorry, I could have awoken earlier.”

Lestrade waved a hand. “Can’t sleep in these days. Usually up early.”

“I see,” Mycroft nodded, moving to prepare his own breakfast.

“Thank you, for the bed, it was…well, best night of sleep I’ve had in a long time.”

“I assure you, you are welcome,” Mycroft said, dropping his artisan granary bread into the toaster. “As I said, it is…it is empty, and it would seem a great injustice if you were…without a roof over your head.”

“You know you don’t owe me anything, don’t you?” Lestrade said. “I know…I get that you want to help. But you don’t have to. I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to…you know, your life goes on, I get that.”

“Your life goes on too,” Anthea pointed out. “What sort of friends would we be if we didn’t help?”

Lestrade shrugged. “You were my employer.”

Anthea shot Mycroft a look. “We were friends,” she reiterated. “And believe me, you’d do the same for either of us. Probably more. You were…you are, I’m sure, from what John’s said, a very compassionate man.”

“Am I?” Lestrade gave a small smile into his coffee. “I don’t…I read that file, last night. Those…my wife, my daughter, and I just...I don't remember them. I want to. I feel like...but I don't. I'm just making it all up. A story, that I can believe in."

"I'm afraid you did not speak of them to us," Mycroft said. "So we can offer you no insight. You were quite private, regarding your past. I knew many things, of course, from looking into your background when you entered my employ. As you can appreciate, we needed to be quite thorough in that respect. But I do not attempt to pry into my employees private lives. Someone would have checked your familial connections, for anything compromising, but they would not have reported to me any further details."

Lestrade shrugged. "Probably better this way. And it might still come back, like, some things have just being here. I thought...I don't know. I might see if I can get in touch with her parents. I mean, if they're still alive."

"Indeed. We can, of course, assist you in such ventures."

"Thanks. I'll see. I...yeah, well, I'll see. Seems a little....masochistic."

Mycroft gave a small smile. "I assure you, it is completely understandable."

_______________

 

Mycroft generally found it difficult to work with other people around, but he found that having Lestrade in the house didn't bother him - as it had not when Lestrade had been working for him. Although now he was more attuned to the man's presence, and had to hold back from offering to do everything for him.

He found Lestrade's ability to settle and read a book a great asset, and when he heard Lestrade and Anthea laughing over Lestrade's inability to work Mycroft's large oven, it was like music to his ears. He did, however, envy the easy relationship that Anthea and Lestrade seemed to have fallen into.

One evening, when Anthea was out, Mycroft was just finishing up his work when he heard the front door open and close. The weather had turned incredibly cold, and he didn’t exactly know what Lestrade did, apart from walk the streets for hours on end, when he was out. Anthea had mentioned that they ought to decide what they were going to do to assist Lestrade, but Mycroft found himself paralysed with indecision, and worried that whatever he did would result in Lestrade moving out of the house.

He walked into the hallway in time to see Lestrade removing his coat, rubbing his hands together after he hung it up.

“Can I get you a drink?” he offered. “Coffee or tea, perhaps?”

“Coffee, thanks. I can make it though, if you’re busy,” Lestrade offered.

“No, no, I was just about to make one.” Mycroft led the way into the kitchen and filled the kettle. “Have you had a pleasant day?” he asked, hoping to learn a little more about what Lestrade got up to.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Mycroft inwardly sighed a little. “It is…rather cold, to be out for so long, is it not? You are welcome to stay in the house, you know?”

“I know. Thanks. Better dressed for it now than I used to be though, you know?”

Mycroft realised he was going to get no further, without asking direct, prying, questions, which he couldn’t bring himself to do.

______________

 

The next day, however, he kept an eye on his security cameras, from his office. When he saw Lestrade departing the house he focussed his attention, using a string of cameras to pick up the other man’s journey. Occasionally he would lose him for a heart-stopping moment, but would always find him again. He felt guilty, prying, but he also wanted to do more to understand this man.

Lestrade ducked into a small cafe - no big-chain coffee shops for him, Mycroft noted, and re-appeared holding two white styrofoam cups of something hot. Mycroft was surprised, somehow imagining that Lestrade’s days were spent alone.

The man carefully wove around the few people window shopping and walking slowly on the pavement, and then clearly said something to someone. He squinted, panning the camera out, to try to see who Lestrade was talking to.

There was a huddled figure, in a doorway. An oversized woolly hat and a dirty coat meant he didn’t get much clue as to the identity of the person at first, but as Lestrade moved to sit next to them, Mycroft could focus in once more.

He could see it was a young woman who took the offered mug, smiling up at Lestrade.

Lestrade sat, and the two of them talked, sipping their tea. Occasionally the girl would laugh, and Lestrade would smile, and Mycroft would frown at the screen, wondering what the relationship was. Was Lestrade romantically interested in her? Surely he would have mentioned her, if he was. At the very least asked if she could also stay at the house. Or would he feel this was overstepping some boundary?

Mycroft forced himself to stop watching, and get on with his work, but it was gnawing away at him. He finally turned back to the screen, and saw the girl was now sitting, alone, clearly asking passers by for something - money, Mycroft presumed. He sighed, wondering what he could do now. He felt as if his spying had left him with more questions than answers.

 

When Anthea entered his office a short time later, he sighed and threw down his pen.

“Sir?”

“What am I doing, Anthea?” he asked. “I…I need your advice.”

“I am presuming you are referring to Greg, not the foreign policy you’re reviewing?” she smiled.

Mycroft nodded miserably.

“I shall go and fetch tea,” Anthea said firmly.

 

When she returned they sat facing each other across his desk.

“So?” she prompted.

“I do not wish to…scare him off. Or insult him. Or…and that leaves me in a state of…”

“Right. So, the basics - he’s our friend, although he might not remember it. He has, at the moment, nothing. Therefore does not have the means to get anything. Yes?”

Mycroft nodded.

“So, I would suggest you get his identity sorted out. We know who he is, we can arrange that. I wouldn’t even tell him. Just give him the information, the documents. He can do with it as he pleases.”

“And…what? We suggest he gets a job?” Mycroft asked.

“We tell him we’ll help him find a place to live, and find employment - if he wants our help, that is.”

“I…how…how can we let him go again? We’ve only just found him.”

“We have no right to keep him,” Anthea smiled. “I know what you mean, Sir, but all we can do is help him.”

Mycroft nodded slowly. “Of course you are right, my dear. And…money. He…he has nothing, other than what Sherlock has paid him.”

“He must have had money in the bank. Find it. At the very least he was still owed his wages, when he went missing. What you chose to do further than that is something I think you need to talk to him about.”

“Your advice is, as always, invaluable,” Mycroft smiled.

________________

 

That night they ate dinner together, before Anthea excused herself.

Mycroft poured himself a glass of whiskey, and offered Lestrade one.

“I…I have done a small amount of work,” Mycroft said. “Spoken to a few…departments. So I can now give you…” he handed over a brown envelope.

Lestrade looked quizzical, but tipped the contents out. He picked them up, one by one. A passport, National Insurance card, driving licence, and a bank card.

“You did this? How? I mean, how so fast, without me…signing forms, or whatever?”

“Ah, well, I have…contacts. And, well, it seemed the best thing to do. But please, I absolutely assure you, you are welcome to stay in this house as long as you like. This is in no way a signal you should leave. I merely wanted to give you the choice.”

Lestrade nodded, and picked up a piece of paper which had a PIN printed on it.

“Obviously, you should change that at a cashpoint at your first convenience,” Mycroft said, hurriedly.

“Yeah…okay.” Lestrade looked a little unsure, but made a neat stack of his new belongings and sipped his drink. “What would you do? If you were me?” he asked.

Mycroft swallowed the mouthful of whiskey he had just taken. “If…if I found myself, in a position were…I had nothing, then, if I were still…me, then I should imagine I would go to my parents’ home and reside with them, until I was sure of a path.”

“Right. Of course.”

“If I did not have parents, then…I really couldn’t say. I…would like to think I would find a job which I found satisfying, which paid the bills.”

“Isn’t that all anyone wants?” Lestrade asked. “And those are people without…without some great big gap in their lives. I’ve seen the news, read the paper. There’s not much out there, is there?”

“You are a very talented individual,” Mycroft said carefully. “And I will give you a reference. In fact, I will happily state that you have worked for me, continuously, and make no mention of the last three years. But, as I said, please do not be in a hurry to leave.”

Lestrade gave a small smile, which seemed to Mycroft to be filled with sadness, but he had no idea why.

______________

 

The next day Mycroft was working in town when his mobile phone buzzed loudly on his wooden desk top. He recognised the number as his own, from the house.

“Hello?” he answered, sitting back in his chair.

“Mycroft?” Lestrade asked.

“Yes, speaking,” Mycroft confirmed.

“I went to the bank. There’s money in that account - ninety grand! What the fuck is that for?”

Mycroft was slightly surprised by the language, but cleared his throat. “I assure you, the money in that account is merely your own savings, from before you were…went missing. I do feel you are owed a sizeable sum in back pay, in addition to this, but I wanted to talk to you with regard to that.”

There was a silence on the other end of the line, and it went on for so long that Mycroft looked at his phone, to check it was still connected.

“Right.” Lestrade finally said. “Right. Thanks. See you later, then.”

As the call cut off, Mycroft rubbed his hand over his face, once again completely unsure he was doing the right thing.

 

It wasn’t long before his phone rang again - another number he recognised.

“John,” he answered curtly.

“Mycroft. Ja…Greg just called me. Said he wanted to talk. He sounded…well, anyway, what’s going on?”

“Ah, yes. Well, we - that is, Anthea and myself, decided we should begin to help him get his life back. So I organised his identity documents, as we discussed.”

“Right. I don’t see why he’d be upset about that,” John confessed.

“I believe…I believe it is the monetary side of it which has led him to be…which has…”

“What did you do?” John said, and Mycroft flinched slightly at the tone.

“I merely organised a bank account for him, which contains the money he had saved before…when he worked for me, before he was…missing.”

There was a pause, then John cleared his throat. “Oh. Right. Well…okay. I thought…”

“I am not completely without tact, Doctor,” Mycroft sighed. “Although I admit this situation is not one I am comfortable with.”

“Yeah. Right. Sorry, I didn’t mean…well, I’m going to meet him, anyway. I’ll let you know if, y’know, he says anything you should know about.”

“Thank you.”

______________

 

John walked through the park - it was sunny, but cold, and he had his hands dug firmly into his pockets. He spotted Lestrade standing by the water’s edge, and went to stand beside him, their breath mingling in great white clouds and drifting away across the lake.

“All right, then?” he said.

“Yeah. Sorry to…I just needed someone to talk to. Not Mycroft.”

“I’m all ears, mate,” John smiled. “Want to get a coffee or something?”

Lestrade nodded, but walked so slowly that John suspected he didn’t really want to head inside, but instead talk out in the open.

“So, what’s up?” John asked.

“I…Mycroft got me my ID back. I mean, passport and stuff. So I can…get a job, I suppose. Or…well, I don’t know. Somewhere to live.”

“Right. And that’s…good? Or…how do you feel about that?” John tried to remember his training, and ask open questions.

“I don’t know. He…he gave me a bank account. There’s money - I mean, a lot of money, in it. He says it’s mine, from before but…I don’t know if it really is.”

“Why do you think he’d lie?” John asked.

“Because he…wouldn’t want me to be able to give it back? Or…I don’t know. I can remember, you know, some stuff. But not working for him. I mean, I think I can remember being in Iraq. But to me…I didn’t come back, you found me there. I sort of…well, I think I remember being in the army. But it might just be…reading things, seeing things on the telly, you know?”

“Yeah. Well, no, I don’t know, obviously. So, what do you think you’ll do?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Do you smoke? Sorry, stupid question, probably, with you being a doctor.”

“Yeah, no, sorry.”

“I don’t know what to do. Find a place to live. I was wondering if you could help, actually. I mean, I’ve been down the library, and they showed me how to use the computer there, that’s where I read up on some things. So, I think, I can use that to find a place to live, can’t I? Nowadays?”

“Err, yes. But you can just go into an estate agent, too. The whole world isn’t online,” John smiled. “It depends what you want, really. Do you want to rent a place? Be a lodger? Share somewhere, get a place of your own? Lots of questions, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t know. I’ve got…he’s given me ninety grand, John. Ninety grand. I don’t know what to do!”

John blinked, trying to take the figure in. “Right. Well, he didn’t really give it to you, it sounds like it’s yours. But…point taken.”

“Yeah…well, it feels like…and he said he wanted to give me more - like, back-pay or whatever, from when they thought I was dead.”

“Well, look, you don’t have to do anything right away. I know Mycroft is glad you’re staying at his, so, if you don’t mind that…stay there. Think about what you want to do. Don’t rush in.”

“Is he really? I mean, just feels like I’m…you know, in the way. He works so much.” Lestrade held open the door of the coffee shop for John.

“Honestly, I’ve never seen him so eager to be near anyone!” John laughed. “You’re okay. He wants to help.”


	7. Chapter 7

John occasionally thought of Lestrade, over the next few days, but refrained from calling him.

Then, one evening, his phone went off in his pocket. He pulled it out to see a message from a number he didn’t know - which wasn’t unusual.

‘John. Anthea helped me buy a phone and told me I had to practice using it. Do you want a pint sometime? Greg.’

John smiled to himself and replied.

‘Absolutely. Tomorrow? Want to meet up near yours?’

‘Yeah, know anywhere good? I haven’t been out anywhere.’

‘Sure. I’ll look up a few places and give you a call.’

John did a bit of research on the internet, then texted Lestrade, pleased when he got a text back, confirming things.

 

“You’re going out to see Lestrade?” Sherlock observed from the sofa, where John had thought he was asleep.

John pulled the sleeves of his coat straight. “Yeah. Want to come?”

“No. Drunkards are so insufferably dull. Tell him I’ve got some work, tomorrow night, the night after, maybe. Tell him to come and see me.”

John rolled his eyes. “Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir.”

“No need for sarcasm. You are seeing him.”

“And you could call him! I gave you his number.”

Sherlock didn’t move or show any signs of response, so John headed out into the cold evening.

 

Lestrade was already in the pub when John arrived, looking neater and tidier than ever - John presumed Mycroft and Anthea had been responsible for that. His hair was cut and had a little bit of product in it, his clothes were not only clean, but looked new.

“Looking good,” John grinned.

“Anthea. She’s having a great time, shopping for me. Seems like the internet sends me something new every day.” Lestrade looked down at himself. “Anyway, what’s your poison?”

“Oh, you don’t have to. I’ll buy.”

“Not a chance. Not now I’ve got the cash, after all you’ve done for me.”

They settled into a corner, both sipping pints, and discussing the world.

“You follow the football?” Lestrade asked.

John shrugged. “Not really. You?”

Lestrade laughed. “No, but Anthea tells me I used to be mad for Arsenal. Mycroft got us a box there once, apparently. For me. I mean, can you imagine? Mycroft with a pie yelling at the ref? I don’t remember, sadly. I don’t know if I should try and…you know, rekindle the love?”

John shrugged. “No need if you don’t feel it. What about…any other loves? Trying to rekindle them?”

Lestrade raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

“Well, just thinking you and Anthea seem to be getting on rather well.”

Lestrade grinned. “She’s nice, but…not like that. She’s more like…I don’t know. She’s just a friend. A bit more…she’s, you know, easy going.”

“You mean than Mycroft?” John grinned.

Lestrade shrugged and looked into his pint. “Mycroft’s…he’s fine, when you get to know him. Bit…”

“Uptight?” John offered.

“No! He’s just…very aware, you know, social conventions, people’s reactions. Like Sherlock, sort of. Except Sherlock reads your mind and doesn’t care. Mycroft cares. Far too much.”

“Oh, speaking of his lordship, Sherlock says he’s got a job on, if you’re interested? He wouldn’t tell me what, just said you should drop ‘round tomorrow.”

“Really?” John noted the way Lestrade perked up, eyes shining.

“Yeah. Don’t feel obliged though, eh? Now you don’t need to.”

“No, God, it’s…fun. Sort of. Don’t you think?”

John grinned. “It is. That’s why I’m…well, you know, not the only reason. But it beats watching daytime TV, doesn’t it? Being out there, solving crimes.”

“Yeah. Mycroft…well…well, neither of them will admit to having a hand in it, but I’ve got a job interview. Probably. Just waiting to hear back from the bloke when’s a good time to go in.”

“Brilliant!” John slapped Lestrade on the shoulder. “Well done, mate. Want another? Think you have to, to celebrate, really.”

Lestrade grinned. “Why not. Same again, ta.”

 

“So,” John put the new pint in front of Lestrade. “What’s the job?”

“Ah…look, don’t laugh, all right? It’s not…very exciting.”

“I wouldn’t!” John protested.

“It’s just, like, working in the parks. You know, mowing the lawns, doing the flower beds, that sort of stuff.”

“Well that’s brilliant, if it’s the sort of thing you want to do?”

Lestrade gave a small shrug. “I couldn’t face being in an office or something - haven’t got any of the skills, anyway. Not that I remember having any skills, but…anyway, it seemed like a good idea. Being outside, doing something physical. Mycroft was saying something about security and stuff, because it’s all around Buck house, and obviously I can pass all that, because of him. And at least it’ll keep me busy.”

“Sounds perfect, at least for a while. Never know, you might get an invite to the Queen’s garden party if you mow the lawns right.”

“It’s not in the palace,” Lestrade laughed. “Just the parks around it. I’m not going to be dodging corgis on a ride on mower or anything.”

“Just make sure you do dodge them, wherever you are! I’m not sure even Mycroft could talk you out of trouble if you dice up a corgi.”

______________

 

Mycroft heard Lestrade enter the house, and couldn’t help but glance at his watch. He would never admit it out loud, of course, but he had missed the other man’s quiet presence. The conversations they had over dinner. Sometimes barely more than a few sentences were uttered over an evening, but there was still something comforting about his presence.

Mycroft sighed. Of course, it was no surprise a man like Lestrade would rather be down the pub, which would have so much more to offer than silence on a comfortable sofa and a log fire burning in the hearth.

A short while later, Lestrade came back downstairs, heading for the kitchen.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked on his way through the sitting room.

“No, thank you.” Mycroft answered instinctively. “Oh, well, if you wouldn’t mind putting the kettle on?”

“‘Course.”

A few moments later Mycroft followed him into the kitchen, finding a mug and a roibos teabag, glancing to see Lestrade constructing a messy sandwich. At least he hadn’t been out to dinner with anyone, then.

“Been out with John,” Lestrade said, as if reading Mycroft’s mind. “He was very nice about my chances at the job interview.”

Mycroft smiled. “I assure you, you have as much chance of the next person.”

In fact, Mycroft knew, Lestrade had more chance than most, given the good word Mycroft had put in for him.

“Yeah, still, been a long time. Or…well, time’s irrelevant. I just can’t remember the last time I had an interview. Did you interview me?”

Mycroft smiled. “I did.”

“So, got any tips?” Lestrade grinned. “Anything I nearly stuffed up on?”

Mycroft frowned, remembering the day clearly. He’d thought about it often enough, when he was torturing himself with all the ‘what ifs’ of Lestrade’s ‘death’. Wished he’d never given him a job, because at least then he would have been alive.

He smiled then, thinking about how ridiculous that statement now was.

“I…um…no. You were most…well, yes, you were by far the best candidate.”

“Right,” Lestrade grinned, taking a huge bite of his sandwich. As he chewed he gestured, with the sandwich, at Mycroft. “Bit diff’rent, being a walking bullet-proof vest for you, and tending her Maj’s roses, innit?”

Mycroft cleared his throat, and sipped his tea, giving himself time to think. “I…yes. The skill sets are not entirely the same. But…I believe you can easily adapt. I think they will see that. If they don’t, they’re…well, idiots, Anthea would say.”

“Well if I do get it, I’ll get myself sorted and get out of your hair. You must be itching to get the place back to yourself.”

Mycroft gave a small smile. “On the contrary. I have grown rather fond of the company.”

The smile Lestrade gave him in return made him look away, slightly embarrassed by the man’s open show of emotion.

“You were also, at your interview, the only candidate who picked up The Guardian to read in the waiting area, instead of Nuts or FHM,” Mycroft added, trying to lighten the mood once more.

“You were watching?” Lestrade asked.

“Indeed.”

“And…it was late, wasn’t it? The interview. On purpose, I suppose.”

“You remember?” Mycroft couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.

“I…yeah, I think I do,” Lestrade grinned.

“It was indeed on purpose. I like to observe people, before I meet them, if possible. The job involved long periods of waiting. It was a rather essential skill.”

“And the papers were a test?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Of sorts.”

“And I passed?”

“You did.”

“I’d already read FHM, on the train down,” Lestrade grinned.

Mycroft was lost for words, completely unsure if Lestrade was joking or not.

 

Lestrade found himself a glass and got water from the tap, whilst Mycroft pottered around, putting away a few items, not quite knowing what to do with himself. He knew he should just go to bed, but he enjoyed being around Lestrade too much to waste what he now saw as precious time, before Lestrade was going to leave and find his own place to live.

_________________

 

The next night Mycroft returned from work late, and was sad to discover the house was empty. A plate on the drying rack suggested that Lestrade had been around for lunch, but not dinner, backed up by the evidence of missing cheese and a loaf of bread with a slightly wonky cut left in it.

He settled down to work in the sitting room, having only a few reports to read, rather than things to do at the computer.

 

After a few hours his stomach rumbled loudly. He had been hoping that Lestrade would return, so they could eat together, but he now sighed and headed to the kitchen alone, making a quick salad with some cold chicken left over from the day before. He sat at the table, alone, as he had done for so many nights.

When he returned to the sitting room, he put the stereo on so Elgar could accompany him during the remainder of his work - the soothing tones helping relax him.

 

He looked up when the front door opened, glancing at the clock on the mantlepiece. It was well past midnight, and he frowned, wondering where the time had gone.

He heard a gentle curse from the hallway, and was about to call out to Lestrade when there was a clash as keys hit the tiles, then another curse. A thump suggested shoes had been kicked off, and footsteps receded up the stairs.

 

The minutes ticked by, and finally Mycroft couldn’t take it any more. He stood and silently entered the hallway, his bare feet making no sound. Lestrade’s shoes were haphazardly kicked under the hall table. But that wasn’t what made Mycroft’s heart skip a beat. There was a smudge of blood on the tiles, as if a finger had dragged through it when the keys were retrieved. He turned and took the stairs two at a time, pushing through the partly open door into Lestrade’s apartment.

“Greg?”

The sound of water running led him to the bathroom, where Lestrade was bent over the sink, pink water dripping from his face as he washed, the shiny tap bright with a red smear.

“Greg?” Mycroft repeated.

“Ah…” Lestrade stood, turning to Mycroft. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. What happened?” Mycroft looked at the obvious bruising and cut over Lestrade’s eye, the thin trickle of blood still emerging from his nose and the noticeably fat lip.

“I…fucked it up, and…shit, I’ve got the interview tomorrow, and look at me!” Lestrade turned back to the sink, wetting a flannel and holding it on his eye.

“I assure you, it can be postponed. What happened? Can I help? I have a well stocked first aid kit. Or if needed, I can drive you to hospital.”

“No, I’m fine, just…Shit.” Lestrade washed the flannel out and re-wetted it.

“Come downstairs. I can help. Please?” Mycroft said. “I’m sure it won’t seem so bad in the morning, and I assure you, it will not change the outcome of the interview. I can send an explanation. Where you attacked?”

“In a way. Was helping Sherlock, wasn’t I?”

Mycroft sucked in a breath. “I see. And he…allowed this to happen?”

“No, I was just stupid. I was trying to…doesn’t matter.”

“Come downstairs. I believe there are also ice packs in the freezer.”

Mycroft tried not to hover around Lestrade as he made his way down the stairs, and once in the kitchen he eased the leather jacket from Lestrade’s shoulders.

“Where else are you hurt?”

“Nowhere, it was just a scuffle.”

Mycroft frowned, but headed to the cupboard to fetch the large green first aid kit anyway.

He unzipped it and opened it on the kitchen table, finding an assortment of dressings and tape.

“Here,” he said triumphantly, pulling a packet of sticky strips from the case. “I’m sure we can fix your eye. And an ice pack may well deal with the worst of the swelling.”

Lestrade grunted, removing the flannel from his face so Mycroft could see what he was doing.

Mycroft licked his lips as he carefully cleaned the wound, trying not to breathe on Lestrade’s face. He jumped as Lestrade flinched, and they both smiled.

“Sorry,” Lestrade murmured. “Just stings a bit.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s fine. You’re very kind.”

“We have…been through worse, together,” Mycroft said. “You have taken care of me, when I have needed it. We have been in…situations of extreme danger, before.”

“Really?” Lestrade sounded surprised.

“Indeed. Although I must say I rarely appreciated the danger until it was passed. You were expert at noticing the slightest thing amiss.”

Lestrade let out a huff which might have been a laugh. “Can’t imagine you missing much.”

“In business, perhaps. But when it came to the…physical danger, I found I relied upon you heavily.”

Mycroft carefully dabbed the skin around the cut on Lestrade’s eyebrow dry, then used a pair of tweezers to apply the first strip. He realised, around about the fourth strip, that Lestrade’s breathing was also shallow, and that his gaze was fixed very firmly on the far wall.

“And I am unsure I realised how much faith I had in you until I put my safety into the hands of others, after you…were absent from my life. I decided then that my time was better spent here, in London.”

“I’m sure they’d have done a fine job.” Lestrade flinched slightly. “But you know, I’m glad, that you stopped putting yourself in danger, I think.”

The pause stretched, strained, and Mycroft wanted to say something, but for once his brain was no help in supplying the right words. He wished he knew how to flirt, how to have the easy teasing banter which Lestrade had with Anthea. But he did not. His mind was blank. 

“There, all done,” he announced suddenly, sticking the last strip on, breaking the mood and the moment completely. Smiling as brightly as he could. “Now, let me fetch an ice pack.”

He tried not to be aware of Lestrade’s glance at his lips, or sudden smile.

______________

Mycroft found himself worrying the next day. Lestrade hadn’t been awake by the time he had had to leave for work. He glanced at his watch more often as the hour of the interview approached, wondering if it would be inappropriate to send a text, wishing him luck. He couldn’t possibly call - it would seem as if he were checking up on an errant teenager. He’d made that mistake often enough when Sherlock was an errant teenager.

So he fretted, silently, and hoped that the glowing recommendation he had submitted was enough to ease the way if the interview floundered or Lestrade struggled.

Anthea clearly not only noticed his worry, but also correctly guessed the reason for it. When she entered the room to bring him an update on a situation he had been keeping an eye on she casually dropped into conversation that Lestrade had left the house on time, looking smart.

Mycroft smiled, and pretended he hadn't been at all concerned. He knew Anthea saw through him, but neither acknowledged it.

_____________

That evening they all ate dinner together, Mycroft struggling to find suitable topics of conversation. He wanted so desperately to ask how the interview had gone, but he also wanted to restrain himself. Lestrade and Anthea seemed content to discuss the lies told over the tannoy on the Underground, and the state of the driving skills of Londoners.

Finally, over dessert, Lestrade turned to Mycroft, after giving a cheeky grin to Anthea. “You seem like there’s something you want to say, Mycroft?”

“I..err…I…no?” Mycroft managed to garble out.

“Ah, well, I thought you might want to ask about the interview, but if you’re not interested…”

Mycroft sighed. “Very amusing, I’m sure. I am, of course, most eager to know how it went.”

Lestrade laughed, and Mycroft knew that Anthea had mentioned something to him.

“It went well, I think. I mean, I don’t think I’m a very good judge - given I literally can’t remember the last time I had an interview. But they were nice, and seemed…understanding, I guess? I mean, I don’t know how many people they’re seeing, but I think I’m in with a chance.”

Mycroft nodded approvingly. “I am sure you proved yourself most suitable.”

“Maybe. Apart from looking like I’ve been in a pub brawl,” Lestrade shook his head, seemingly at himself.

“I am certain they can see past such….minor issues.”

“You seem certain of quite a lot,” Lestrade answered, looking Mycroft in the eye.

Mycroft cleared his throat and broke the eye contact. “Coffee?” he offered, standing up abruptly.

______________

 

Two days later John ran down the stairs to answer a loud knock on the door. He expected it to be something to do with Sherlock, and was glad to see Lestrade standing on the pavement instead.

“Hey,” Lestrade smiled. “Wondered if you’d be free for a drink?”

“Sounds like you’re asking me out on a date,” John laughed.

“Nah, you’re not that lucky, it’s a celebration,” Lestrade answered. “Got offered the job. So…well, might not be around so much for Sherlock’s little jobs anymore, but I can still help out, on my days off and stuff.”

“Congratulations! Come on up, I’m just writing up that last case, but I’ll be done in a few minutes. I can’t leave it - Sherlock would change it all before I got back. Probably cause some sort of huge crisis within the police force with his insults, you know, better I just finish it.”

“Course.” Lestrade followed John up the stairs and into the sitting room. Sherlock was at the kitchen table, surrounded by petri dishes and flasks of chemicals.

“Hey, Sherlock, Greg got the job,” John called over.

“Dull.” was Sherlock’s only response, as he scraped up some grey-looking mould.

“Thanks, Sherlock. Sure it will be, in comparison to working with you,” Lestrade said, gesturing to his healing face.

“At least Mycroft is now too lazy to require a bodyguard. Not that his corpulent frame is worth guarding. You can collect me soil samples from everywhere you work.”

“I can, can I?” Lestrade laughed.

“You might as well achieve something of some use.”

John rolled his eyes and continued tapping away on his laptop, wondering how Lestrade put up with the constant barbs with such good humour.

______________

 

Lestrade walked up to the nondescript door off Horse Guards and knocked. There was no answer, so he tried the handle, and the door swung silently open. He looked around, then walked in. The corridor was bare, apart from a few noticeboards, covered in leaflets and bits of paper, pinned haphazardly.

There was a door to his right, with a small sign on it stating that it was reception, so he tried that door, too. Once again, it swung open, and a middle aged woman looked up from behind a desk.

“Can I help you?” she asked, looking at him over the top of her glasses.

“Hi. My name’s Lestrade. I’m supposed to be starting work today?”

She suddenly smiled. “Ah! Greg. We were told to expect you. Sorry, I’ve just had it up to here with filming requests recently - as if we can just close half a park for someone to shoot their sitcom - I thought you were another one of those.”

“Oh. Err..no,” Lestrade smiled. “Just wasn’t sure I was in quite the right place.”

“You are. And not a moment too soon. We’ve got a huge delivery in, and need all hands on deck. You’ll be working with Ray - he’ll see you right. You’ll be with him all week, and we leave it up to the teams where you’ll meet up each morning. No point coming all the way here if you’ll be planting the other side of the park, is there? Follow me.”

“I guess not, no.” Lestrade followed her out of the office and through a few corridors, into some store rooms. He was given his uniform - green jumpers, a t-shirt, trousers and steel-toe boots - before emerging into a yard full of vehicles, where people were busily loading up tools and equipment around a sea of plants on trolleys which were being unloaded from a large lorry.

He was introduced to Ray, before being sent to change into his new uniform and report back.

Ray seemed friendly enough - a large man, with a weathered face. Lestrade couldn’t quite tell how old he was - he guessed younger than he looked.

“Get in then, we’re off,” Ray said, as the last of their plants and tools were loaded into their small truck. “Weather’s set fair, we’ll have a great day, you’ll see.”

 

Lestrade did enjoy the work - they were digging out the borders and planting new flowers - Ray showed him how to identify the plants, and look at the drawings to follow the new layout for the flowerbeds. He discovered Ray had worked in the parks all his life, and therefore knew everything there seemed to be to know. He explained the different parks, the duties they carried out with the seasons. Who he’d seen, things he’d found, odd happenings and rumours - Lestrade found himself laughing out loud at many of the stories.

Despite the hard work, the day passed quickly, and by the end of it Lestrade was tired but happy. He’d expected some awkward conversations about his own past, but Ray had avoided the subject, and not asked anything beyond the vaguest of questions regarding Lestrade’s experience.

“Can I drop you somewhere?” Ray offered, as they packed the last of the tools away.

“Oh, no, I’ll walk, thanks,” Lestrade answered. “We’re meeting back here tomorrow?”

“You got it. Half seven. I’ll bring you a bacon sarnie - just the once, mind!”

Lestrade laughed. “Thanks!”

______________

 

He walked home through the park, enjoying the sunshine, and was surprised to find Mycroft in the kitchen when he got home, instead of tucked away in the office.

“Ah. I trust you have had a good day?” Mycroft smiled.

“Yeah, yeah, it was. Better than I thought. Mind you, it was sunny, wasn’t it? Might change my mind when it’s pissing down.”

“Coffee?” Mycroft smiled.

“Cheers.” Lestrade watched Mycroft carefully work the coffee machine as he washed the dirt from his hands in the sink. “What about you? Successful day ruling the world?”

Mycroft gave a small smile. “I’m afraid my world-ruling days are over. Now I just rule a small corner of my office, and I only manage that when Anthea is elsewhere.”

Lestrade gratefully received the cup of coffee Mycroft offered him, and they both wandered out onto the back deck to drink in the small garden, Lestrade lighting a roll-up and enjoying the last of the sun as it dipped behind the buildings.

______________

Mycroft found himself treasuring the quiet evenings they spent together more and more, and endeavoured not to arrange evening meetings, or to attend any more formal dinners than he absolutely had to.

Lestrade wasn’t always around - and Mycroft supposed he should be pleased, that Lestrade was settling into something of a normal routine. He knew that some nights he went with John for a few drinks. The rest of the time he wasn’t sure where Lestrade ended up. He supposed he could be having drinks with his new colleagues, but he didn’t allow himself to pry, even though the answers could have been at his fingertips.

______________

 

One evening he found himself alone on the sofa, reading a book, when Anthea arrived. She let herself in an put a few things in the kitchen, then stuck her head into the sitting room. “Evening, Sir,” she smiled. “On your own?”

Mycroft nodded. “Please, feel free to join me,” he offered.

Anthea returned after a few minutes, a drink in her hand, and kicked off her shoes, tucking her feet under her as she sat on the sofa.

“No Greg?”

“Indeed. He is…well, not here, obviously.”

“Do you know where he is?” She asked.

Mycroft looked up, assessing her expression. “No. You do, though.”

Anthea shrugged. “I asked him. He told me.”

Mycroft huffed slightly. He hadn’t asked, although he wasn’t sure why.

“Want to know?”

“If you wish to tell me,” Mycroft answered, attempting not to seem nosey.

“He goes to see people he knew when he lived on the streets. He takes them for food, he offers to help them in any way he can.”

Mycroft tried to hide his surprise. He wasn’t sure why, but he had assumed that once you had left such a world you wouldn’t want to return, and be reminded of everything.

“That is…”

“It’s great, isn’t it? He’s using the fact he got lucky, and met us, to help others.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mycroft tried to examine his feelings. He realised he felt…guilty. That he had helped Lestrade and considered his job done. “I will have to…discuss with him if perhaps there is anything we can do to help this endeavour.”

Anthea beamed. “I think he’d like that.”

“He would not consider it…meddling?” Mycroft asked carefully.

“If you offered to help him help his friends, I don’t think he’d worry.”

 

Mycroft attempted to keep his demeanour casual, when, later that night, he heard a key in the front door. He lifted his book slightly, as if concentrating on it, despite not reading a word as he heard shoes being kicked off, Lestrade moving to the kitchen, the tap running. Then Lestrade appeared in the doorway.

“Hey, want a coffee?” he offered.

“Oh, well, tea, please,” Mycroft answered. “Allow me.”

Lestrade waved him back. “It’s okay, I can do it.”

“No, really,” Mycroft removed his reading glasses and slid them into his shirt pocket. He stood beside Lestrade, scooping loose leaf tea into the infuser ball, watching as Lestrade threw a teabag into his own mug. He tried not to pull a face. Lestrade liked his tea stewed beyond all recognition, completely ruining the subtlety of the flavours.

“I trust you have…had a pleasant evening?” Mycroft asked.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Have you been…meeting friends, perhaps your new workmates?”

“No, I mean, yes, friends. People on the street. There’s a girl…”

Mycroft’s heart sank a little. “Oh, no, I see. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

Lestrade looked at him for a second, confused, then grinned. “Oh, I don’t mean…she’s a friend, not…she’s half my age, for a start! And, you know…it’s…well.” He took a deep breath. “This is probably stupid, but…you know I’m gay, right? I mean, from…before?”

Mycroft stared.

Lestrade stared back, then gave a small smile. “I guess…not, then?”

“We…it was not a subject…which we ever discussed. I…no, I wasn’t aware. Not that I should have been, I mean…none of my business.”

“Right…yeah. Sorry, I thought we…I thought, you know, we’d…ah, I don’t know, I thought we were…friends, too, you know? Plus…you know everything.”

“I…no, I mean, we were very…you were very professional. Very…you kept to yourself. I had no idea you’d ever been married, until…until we looked through your possessions when we believed you to be dead. You were dedicated to your work, and I’m afraid I…I was perhaps far too caught up in my own work to form…that sort of friendship. We were…close companions, perhaps.”

“Right. Yeah. Well…I suppose maybe I wasn’t, anyway. Who knows. I suppose I’m bi, really, seeing as I was married. Just…I can only remember fancying blokes, you know? They don’t list it as a side effect of a knock on the head though,” Lestrade smiled.

Mycroft wanted to say it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t affect their friendship. He wanted to assure Lestrade that nothing would change. Except, deep down, he hoped it would. He had never dared to dream Lestrade would have the slightest interest in men, and therefore, definitely no interest in him. Now, however…there was the tiniest, slightest, chance.

Mycroft looked down to his tea. It was thoroughly stewed.

He drank it anyway. He felt as if he deserved it.


	8. Chapter 8

The next day he cautiously brought up the subject of Lestrade’s sexuality with Anthea. He imagined she knew, and he had been the only one so blind. But her expression told him otherwise.

“Ah. I’m not certain it was my place to say,” Mycroft said, slightly pathetically. “If he has not. Please don’t mention it to him.”

“I’d wondered,” she said. “But…well, between him being married, and never being with anyone before…I wondered if he’d just given up on it all, really. Not easy to hold down a relationship in this job, is it?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft sighed.

“Unless you’re with someone who entirely understands,” Anthea winked.

“I have no idea what you’re implying,” Mycroft said, haughtily.

“Probably exactly what you’re inferring, Sir,” Anthea turned and headed back to her own desk.

Mycroft was unable to concentrate for the next hour.

________________

When Lestrade returned home that night he was, as far as Mycroft was concerned, distractingly tanned and slightly dirty - soil on his hands and forearms, the odd scratch, scabbed over, marring his skin. His t-shirt, Mycroft couldn’t help notice, was a touch too tight, and accentuated his wide shoulders.

“Just going to shower,” Lestrade announced, having drunk a pint of water in the kitchen.

“Indeed. I shall make dinner, if that’s okay?”

Lestrade nodded. “Excellent. I’m starving.”

Mycroft made a little extra effort - the chicken and mediterranean vegetables accompanied by a wine he normally reserved for dinner parties. He prepared some zabaglione, mixed in some double cream and put the mixture in small glass dessert dishes in the freezer. He hoped it would set in time.

Lestrade returned to the kitchen, smelling of shower gel, wearing jeans and a shirt, his bare feet slapping on the floorboards.

“Wow, you didn’t need to do all this,” he said, looking at the neatly set table, complete with water jug.

“I enjoy it. It seemed worth the effort.”

“Right…great.” Lestrade sat down, and smiled when Mycroft poured some wine, allowing him to taste it. “Beautiful. Thanks.”

Once Mycroft had served the meal he sat down too, and raised his own glass. “Cheers,” he said.

Lestrade tapped the glasses together. “Cheers. And thanks.”

They ate, Lestrade making appreciative noises. “Delicious. Did you used to cook for us?”

Mycroft took a sip of wine. “Sometimes, yes. Often when we returned from a journey, we would sit down together. Although I confess it was sometimes brought in, if there was no time. However, these days I have far more time to practice, if not opportunity to feed people.”

“Glad I could help there then,” Lestrade smiled.

“In fact, I…wanted to speak to you about…well. Anthea mentioned that you…when you met up with people, like the young lady you mentioned, that you would…help them. And I rather wondered if, well, if I could help you, helping them.”

Lestrade stopped eating. “Well…wow. I mean, yes, that would be amazing.”

“I confess I hadn’t thought about your…change in fortune, and that you would be leaving…friends behind.”

“Ah, there’s … there’s just a few, you know. Most people come and go, some people been there for years, around and about. And others…well, I don’t know, you just want to help, don’t you? Young girls, on the streets, some of them with no family, nothing, and…you know.”

“Well…no, I don’t, to be honest, but one can only imagine.”

Lestrade paused, then nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I guess you can’t, really. Well, when you’re old, like me, you don’t get too much trouble. The odd bit, the odd fight, people being arseholes. But the young girls, you know, lads been out, drunk or whatever. Or just perverts. They get a lot of grief, and worse.”

“Indeed.”

“So…when they know you, know they can trust you, know you’re not after any of that, you can help. So I did.”

“As I can quite imagine you would.” Mycroft said.

“Yeah, I suppose…didn’t remember it was virtually my job,” Lestrade grinned.

“Well, you never had to go quite as far as to protect my virtue, I’m glad to say,” Mycroft allowed himself a small smile back.

Lestrade laughed. “No? I’m sure there were times you were trying to get rid of me tailing you everywhere, get your rocks off with some princess or socialite.”

“I can assure you, princesses are definitely not my type,” Mycroft said. “Nor socialites, I believe.”

Lestrade gestured to his plate. “This is amazing. Delicious.”

“I’m very glad. So…do you have an idea of what I could do, to assist people like your friends?”

“How about we ask them?”

“I…well…” Mycroft stuttered.

“Come out with me tomorrow, we’ll talk to people, yeah? No point trying to help if you don’t even want to talk to them.”

“Well…yes,” Mycroft admitted.

“So we’ll do it. Just try not to find any more ex-employees, or I’ll start thinking it wasn’t an accident,” Lestrade winked.

______________

 

The next evening Mycroft found himself heading out in the most casual clothes he could muster - chinos and a checked shirt - filled with a certain amount of nervousness. He tried to tell himself that there was absolutely nothing to be nervous of - these were just people who had fallen upon hard times. But it didn’t particularly help.

Lestrade walked next to him, hands in his pockets, occasionally peering down alleyways and into darkened corners.

He finally led Mycroft toward a woman who was sitting in a doorway, a sleeping bag over her legs and a paper cup held in her hands.

“Any spare…” she started, then smiled. “Alright, Jay?”

Mycroft was taken aback for a moment, but quickly realised that everyone would only know Lestrade by the name ‘Jay’, and he would have to get used to that.

“Hey. Want to get some food?”

The girl nodded, grabbing her dirty sleeping bag and stuffing it into a rucksack behind her. She pulled on dirty trainers, too, and got up, stretching slightly.

“I really fancy chicken, that okay?”

“Course!” Lestrade pulled her into a quick hug. “You okay?”

“Yeah, same old. Not going to introduce me to your friend?” she smiled.

“This is Mycroft - the bloke I told you about?”

“I know, not like I’m going to forget a name like that, is it?” She smiled at Mycroft. “Alright, Mycroft?”

“Err, yes, indeed, thank you,” He smiled back.

“I’m Sarah, seein’ as how Jay isn’t going to introduce us.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Mycroft held out his hand.

“Sorry, yeah, Sarah, Mycroft, Mycroft, Sarah.”

Lestrade led the way into a small take-away, which seemed to sell, as far as Mycroft could see, only things which had been deep fried. He felt himself go a little pale. The tables were bolted to the floor, the formica cracked, chipped and greasy. The floor had a slightly slippery feel, and a bunch of youngsters were in the corner, openly staring at them.

Sarah and Lestrade had both ordered, whilst Mycroft was left staring up at the garish menu board. “I…errrr…I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he stared helplessly at Lestrade.

“Oh…I dunno, do you like it that spicy? Maybe just…he’ll have the 6 nuggets and chips,” Lestrade said.

Mycroft felt slightly ridiculous, having someone order his food for him, but he accepted Lestrade’s decision and reached for his wallet. “Please, allow me,” he said as Lestrade began to protest.

They sat down, Lestrade sliding over to lean on the wall and allow Mycroft to sit on the outside seat. Sarah sat opposite, next to her bag.

A young man brought them their food in cardboard boxes on a plastic tray, and Sarah grabbed hers and started eating immediately.

“So,” Lestrade started, once she’d got through a few mouthfuls. “Mycroft wants to do something to help. And…I wasn’t sure what to suggest, so I thought he should come down and talk to some of you guys.”

“Help?” Sarah asked.

“Yeah. You know, he’s helped me and…”

“He’s minted,” Sarah finished.

“Yeah. He is. So…”

“So give us a house, then,” Sarah grinned.

Mycroft looked like he might implode, just to prevent himself from touching the greasy surroundings and equally greasy food.

“Yeah, well, maybe something like that?” Lestrade suggested. “Some sort of…place, with, you know, help. Education, counselling, something? Like a first step?”

Sarah shrugged. “Maybe. Some people might like all that.”

 

They chatted for a while longer, mulling over ideas, then Lestrade took a twenty from his wallet, and handed it to Sarah. “Here you go, ’til we see you again. Take care of yourself.”

“Cheers,” Sarah took it, tucking it away. “You take care an’ all, Jay, don’t work too hard, yeah,” she grinned. “You eating that?” She pointed to Mycroft’s barely-nibbled box of chicken and chips.

“Oh, goodness, no, after you,” Mycroft pushed it toward her.

“Cheers,” Sarah shoved a chicken nugget in her mouth. “Gonna stay here a bit in the warm,” she said. “You don’t ‘ave to, though.”

Lestrade nodded, and Mycroft stood, smoothing down his suit.

“Take care then, kiddo,” Lestrade reached out and squeezed Sarah’s hand. “And get in touch if you need anything, yeah?”

She nodded.

 

As they walked away Mycroft tugged his cuffs back into place, and leaned slightly onto his umbrella.

“So, you must be hungry,” Lestrade smiled. “Weren’t exactly tucking in to your dinner back there.”

“I must confess…I have rarely tried anything so vile in all my life,” Mycroft answered. “Which includes the goats testicles we had in Kenya.”

Lestrade laughed. “They were nice! Sort of…spicy and barbecued.”

Mycroft stared at Lestrade.

“What? It’s just another bit of meat.”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, no, you remember? You remember being in Kenya, with me?”

Lestrade stopped dead. “Yeah. I do. I mean…not much. I remember the huge fire they had, the dancing. The hut they gave us, and that goat that got in with us had eaten your socks in the morning…” he trailed off, then smiled widely. “I do remember!”

“That is…that’s wonderful.” Mycroft couldn’t help but smile. “Wonderful news.”

“Your face…you pulled the same expression. Like, complete distaste. But…you don’t want anyone else to notice. Always so polite.”

Mycroft allowed himself a small smile. Of course Lestrade would have noticed.

“Indeed, diplomacy above all else,” he sniffed.

 

When they got home, Anthea was working on the kitchen table, and Lestrade watched as Mycroft told her, excitedly, that Lestrade had remembered more. Anthea’s face showed true happiness.

Lestrade leant back on the worktop, sipping his tea, watching them.

“Why does it matter so much?” he asked. “That I remember things? Is there something I’ve…you know, something I should know? I mean…is it different, now?”

They both turned to stare at him.

“I mean…doesn’t seem like there’s a whole lot that’s…really worth remembering? I don’t mean, us. I mean…well, I don’t miss what I don’t remember, do I?”

“I…no. Indeed. I suppose, I suppose, well, I just want things back how they were.” Mycroft said. “For no reason other than to…assuage my guilt, regarding…how we came to be parted.”

Lestrade grinned. “Seems that you shouldn’t feel guilty for me doing my job. Anyway, things are coming back, bits and bobs. So, you know, I will ask, when I remember things. I will say. But if some of it never comes back…don’t worry, yeah? There’s bits I don’t want to remember. And a few things I do that I’d rather forget.”

Mycroft nodded jerkily, horrified that he hadn’t thought of it all from Lestrade’s point of view at all.

____________

 

The following weeks Mycroft was busy, and they barely saw each other - sometimes Lestrade would head through the kitchen, grabbing coffee and some toast as Mycroft sat and read the paper in the morning, or Mycroft would arrive home just before Lestrade headed to bed.

Mycroft, therefore, wasn’t expecting Lestrade to be waiting up for him one evening, telly on, beer in hand.

“Evening,” Lestrade said, sliding his feet off the coffee table and sitting up.

“Good evening. Late night?” Mycroft removed his jacket and hung it carefully, then began undoing his cufflinks.

“Yeah, I mean…I wanted to talk to you, so, you know…” he shrugged.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy recently. Negotiations, time zones,” Mycroft waved a hand.

“Yeah, I know. Anthea said the other night.”

Mycroft made himself a cup of mint tea, and Lestrade followed him through the kitchen, leaning against the counter as he usually did.

“So,” Lestrade started. “I’ve found myself a place to live.”

Mycroft stared, tea forgotten. “But…you mean…you live here,” Mycroft stuttered.

“Well…yeah, I mean, it was really kind of you, letting me stay here - but, you know, I’m working now. Thought I should ship out, stand on my own two feet.”

Mycroft nodded slowly, although his brain was racing. Although it had always been a possibility he’d never fully believed that once Lestrade was established in his new life he might actually move out.

“I…yes, but, I mean, you mustn’t feel you have to. You’re most welcome to stay. Surely it would be…better to…”

“Well, my place won’t be ready for another week, when the other guy moves out. So I’ll be here for a little longer.”

Mycroft could only nod.

________________ 

 

Anthea smiled at Lestrade as he struggled through the front door, a large bag in one hand.

“Treating yourself?” she smiled.

“Buying essentials,” Lestrade smiled. “Kettle, saucepans and a plate or two.”

“Well, with that level of luxury I’ll be waiting for my dinner invitation,” she winked.

“Not sure I can see Mycroft in a bedsit, eating beans on toast off his lap,” Lestrade smiled.

“It’s the closest he’d ever get to camping, though,” Anthea laughed. “Seriously, though, Greg, we’ll miss you. Just got used to you here, cluttering up the place again.”

Lestrade smiled. “Yeah, can’t stay forever though. None of this would’ve happened if you two hadn’t been here for me, but now…it’s only right I get on with life, yeah? I won’t be a stranger, don’t worry. Can’t afford that scotch of Mycroft’s, so I’ll be back for that, and he’s already invited me back for dinner, so…”

“Good,” Anthea answered.

___________________

 

Lestrade spent a bit of time each night shopping for essentials, from bedding to kitchenware, before finally, on the Saturday, packing everything into a few boxes and bags.

Mycroft stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking at the small pile of belongings, including the guitar he had kept so carefully for all the years Lestrade had been missing from his life.

He wanted to do something ridiculous, dramatic - something worthy of a romantic film - such as wrap Lestrade in his arms as they bid each other goodbye, dip him into a kiss and announce his undying love.

However, when the moment came, and one of Lestrade’s new work colleagues arrived with a small van, the boxes disappeared one by one, and finally all that was left was Lestrade, holding out his keys.

“Thanks, Mycroft, for everything. You really can’t ever understand how much it means to me.”

He found himself wrapped in a strong hug, back slapped, enveloped in Lestrade’s warmth and scent. And then it was gone, Lestrade heading for the van, giving a small wave.

Mycroft looked at the keys in his hand - he’d meant to tell Lestrade to keep them, and somehow he hadn’t even done that right.

He turned back into his house, and Anthea was there, holding out a cup of tea.

“You haven’t lost him again, Sir,” she said gently. “But you do have to let him go.”

He nodded, accepted the cup, and sat on the leather sofa, unsure what to do with himself.

______________

 

Lestrade finished stacking his boxes neatly in his room. It was light - a large bay window overlooked a quiet street - and there was enough room for an armchair, if he decided he wanted one. The bed was double, the kitchen small, in an alcove, but with enough room for everything he’d need, and the bathroom was compact, but newly done with a decent shower, toilet and sink. There was a wardrobe in the corner of his room, so he set about hanging his clothes up, and decided he’d have to get to IKEA or the second hand shops to buy a small chest of drawers and maybe a desk.

Downstairs, just off the entrance hallway, was a washing machine he’d share with the other studio flats in the building.

He scrubbed the kitchen cupboards and put his things in them, then looked around. There was little to do - his possessions were so few it hardly seemed worth unpacking them. He supposed he should get himself a laptop or something, to keep in touch with the modern world - his credit score was still a mess, despite Mycroft’s help, and he didn’t want to spend all his money without careful consideration. The banks weren’t that keen on someone returning from the dead, it seemed, and now he was paying rent it would stop him saving as fast.

He pulled out his mobile phone and dialled John’s number.

“Alright, mate,” he said, when John answered. “Wondered if you’d like to have a pint? Sort of housewarming? You can help me check out my new local.”

John agreed, and an hour later they stepped into a nearby pub.

“Bit posh, isn’t it?” John asked, looking at the rows of tables with people dining.

“Meant to have a decent bitter on though,” Lestrade replied. They avoided the dining area and leant on the bar, glancing at the taps.

The pub was quiet, but doing a good trade in food, and a few people sat around drinking. They ordered, waited for their pints and sat in a corner, near the fire.

“So, here’s to the new place,” John raised his glass, knocking it against Lestrade’s.

“Cheers.”

“What’s it like, then?” John asked.

“Small, but, you know, perfectly formed,” Lestrade grinned. “It’s enough. That’s all I need.”

“And…how did Mycroft take it?” John asked.

Lestrade shrugged. “He didn’t say much, really. Seemed surprised I’d found somewhere. But…well, I couldn’t impose on him forever, not now I’m earning.”

“I hardly think he saw it as an imposition. He seemed to enjoy you being there. I’ve never seen him like that before. I mean, apart from with Anthea, but they’re like siamese twins, so that doesn’t count.”

Lestrade grinned. “Yeah, well, he was very kind, but…you know, got stand on my own two feet.”

John nodded. “I can certainly understand wanting your own space. If I could afford another place I might be tempted myself.”

“Well, welcome to mine any time. Can top and tail in the bed,” Lestrade nudged John’s foot.

“Best offer I’ve had in a long time,” John laughed.

 

By the end of the night they agreed that the pub was at least worthy of another visit, and John walked back to Lestrade’s, picking up a few bottles of beer on the way - pointing out that he couldn’t exactly claim to have warmed a house he hadn’t even seen.

Lestrade led the way up the stairs, having subconsciously noted which steps creaked in the quiet house on his first visit, and let them into his studio. John looked around, and grinned. “Very nice. Far better than my old place. At least it’s not ancient.”

“Yeah, it seemed a lot better than most I saw. Like I said, small, but everything I need. Come on, sit,” Lestrade gestured to the bed, and sat on the windowsill himself.

They rapidly realised a bottle opener was not something which had made it onto Lestrade’s shopping list, and lots of giggling, shushing and fighting with keys ensued to get the caps off the bottles, once it had been established that no surface in the flat would survive the caps being knocked off on it.

Finally they both had a drink in hand, and John raised his bottle.

“To the new flat. And all who sail in her.”

“To you, Doc, for bringing me back to life.”

____________

 

Mycroft ate his dinner, laptop in front of him on the table. Anthea walked into the room, glanced at the food, then the laptop, and turned the kettle on.

“Missing Greg?” she asked.

Mycroft didn’t move.

“It’s okay to admit it. I miss him too. Again.”

Mycroft sighed - a silent rise and fall of his shoulders, then put his fork down.

“It is true that the house seems…emptier.”

“Go and see him,” Anthea said, firmly.

“He has moved on, and issued no invitation to visit. I do not wish to make him uncomfortable.”

“For an intelligent man you’re being incredibly idiotic, Sir. Of course he wants to see you. But he also needs to find his feet again. Call him up. Invite him out for dinner or a drink. Do what normal people do.”

Mycroft picked through his dinner a little more, as Anthea made her tea.

“Sit with me?” he asked, as she turned to leave.

Anthea pulled out a chair and sat, watching as Mycroft closed the laptop.

“I fear that I do not know what…normal people do, because I am not a normal person. As you well know, I do not have friends, I have business contacts. And as such…I find it hard to determine the correct course of action.”

Anthea sipped her tea. “Right, well, first off, text him. Ask how the new place is.”

“You know that I do not generally indulge in texting,” Mycroft frowned.

“Oh my God - then send a carrier pigeon, send a telegram, engage a street urchin to run a note for a penny - just keep in touch, Sir, somehow.”

Mycroft looked slightly taken aback. “Yes. Indeed. Of course.”

Anthea sighed, then laughed. “He likes you, he didn’t move out because he wanted to get away. But he did need to…you know, go back to normal.”

“But normal was him living here,” Mycroft said. “With us.”

“Well…yes, but he doesn’t remember that, does he? And even then, he was in the flat more - self contained, not down here with you all the time. And since then he’s probably been about as alone as a man can get - without even his own memories to keep him company. You’ve got to give him time.”

Mycroft nodded. “Of course. I shall text.” He sat, staring at the phone in his hand.

Anthea sighed loudly. “Look, it’s his birthday, next week. Wednesday. I very much doubt he remembers, or has even bothered to look it up on the file we gave him. Use that as an excuse. And remember, you’re not asking a military leader to stage a coup. You’re asking a friend out for a meal. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Mycroft took a deep breath, then slowly tapped out a text, swearing when the autocorrect kicked in and changed his words.

It wasn’t long after Mycroft had put the phone down that the text alert sounded.

Anthea grinned as Mycroft picked it up.

“He says he’d like…’love’ to meet up for a drink. So…”

“So wonderful,” Anthea smiled. “Ask him where he’d like to meet. And take him a present.”


	9. Chapter 9

A few days later Mycroft sat in a quiet restaurant, at the bar. There were a few other people in there - most dining, but one other man sat at the bar, reading the evening paper. Mycroft swirled his wine around his glass and checked his watch. It was a few minutes after the time they had agreed to meet, but he tried not to worry.

The door opened, and he forced himself not to look around. He did, however, glance into the mirror behind the array of Gin bottles, and allowed himself a small smile when he saw it was indeed Lestrade.

“Heya,” Lestrade pulled out the bar stool next to him. “Nice place. Come here often?”

Mycroft couldn’t help but smile. “Not really. We used to come here sometimes. I would meet people over dinner, you would sit here and wait. I wondered if you…might remember?”

“Ah. No. Not really, not yet,” Lestrade looked around with a bit more interest.

The barmaid approached them, and Lestrade ordered a drink.

“So, how’s the job - and the flat?”

“Good. Yeah - hey, I saw the Queen the other day. I mean…that’s probably not big news to you, but I thought it was exciting. She got out of her helicopter just over from where we were working. I mean, behind a big fence and that, but we could still see her.”

Mycroft smiled to himself. “You have, in fact, met Her Majesty on a number of occasions. Although not to converse with - just for the odd meeting I had to attend.”

“Really?” Lestrade gave a goofy smile. “Maybe next time I’ll pop over and say ‘hi’.”

“You’d probably be shot before you got ten metres, so best not,” Mycroft grinned. “And how is your new flat?”

“Ah, you know. It’s fine. I mean, it’s nice enough, you know? Bit lonely. I was glad you had a free evening. Sort of miss our evenings together, to be honest.”

Mycroft’s heart soared - not that it meant he would get Lestrade back, but at least he knew invitations would be welcome.

“My door is always open to you,” he said. “Anthea is missing you, too. I understand that…that this was something you needed to do. But do not for a moment think you aren’t always welcome at the house.”

“Cheers,” Lestrade raised his glass to Mycroft. “You should pop around some time. I mean, you and Anthea, if she wants. We’d all just about fit.”

“Cheers. And…happy birthday, Greg. Anthea…thought perhaps you may not remember that today is…well, your birthday.”

The smile that lit up Lestrade’s face made Mycroft resolve to give Anthea both a Spa Day and a pay rise.

“Really? That’s crazy…I didn’t know. But thank you. And thanks to Anthea, too.”

“We thought you might appreciate this,” Mycroft reached down to pick up a large black gift bag. “And…Anthea told me to tell you there is a bottle of Ardbeg Uigeadail for you at the house - but she stipulates that it must only be enjoyed with friends, so you must visit to imbibe it.”

Lestrade laughed, peering into the bag. “I will, I promise. God, you’re both very kind. This is great.”

“I do hope they will prove useful gifts.”

Lestrade just shook his head. “I can’t believe…thank you. Truly. Should I open it now? Or later?”

“Later would be fine. And really, it’s the least we can do. Anthea also mentioned the prospect of cake. I’m sure she’ll be in touch. She would like to see you, too.”

 

They chatted about work, and Lestrade asked a few tentative questions about his past role for Mycroft, without going into any specifics - just which places they had travelled to, other public figures they had met.

 

“Hey, I meant to say,” Lestrade said. “Bought myself a laptop, and John taught me about finding things on YouTube, so I’m learning the guitar again. I mean, I sort of remember most of it, but I’m learning some tunes. If you’re really unlucky I’ll play for you sometime.”

Mycroft smiled, wishing he had thought to do that when Lestrade was living with him. “Well, I’m glad you’re putting your free time to good use. The internet can indeed be a wonderful thing.”

 

Mycroft tried to insist he should give Lestrade a lift home, but Lestrade refused, leaving Mycroft with a frustrating car journey alone, over-analysing everything he had said and done that evening. It had never before felt awkward when there were unfilled silences in conversation, but now it did, at least on his side, even though Lestrade seemed to feel no such awkwardness. Mycroft sighed. There had to be some way of returning to their previous relationship, at the very least. Anthea seemed to have managed it, so why couldn’t he?

______________

 

Anthea arranged a small tea party that weekend, and Lestrade seemed delighted with the cup-cakes and ridiculous decorations - including balloons - which had been put up around the sitting room. He thanked them both sincerely for the gifts - driving lessons, the first of which he’d had that morning, and a small coffee maker and selection of capsules for it - far nicer than the instant stuff he’d been drinking since leaving Mycroft’s house.

 

After that it ended up being weeks before Mycroft saw Lestrade again - and once again, he had Anthea to thank for nudging him to act. He invited Lestrade to dinner at the house, with the heavy implication that he was welcome to stay over, if the small dinner party lasted into the night.

 

Lestrade rang the doorbell, then turned as voices approached him - John and Sherlock walked up the short path, bickering about something regarding payment for taxis.

“Hey,” he smiled.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock answered. “I wish to know about the effect of aviation fuel on plant life. Collect samples for me.”

“Hey Greg,” John smiled warmly, rolling his eyes at Sherlock.

The door opened, just as John was asking for backup on his opinion that taxi drivers deserved tipping, and the good natured disagreement lasted inside the house as coats and scarves were removed and hung up.

“Hi,” Lestrade smiled at Mycroft. “Thanks, for the invite. Bought you this,” he handed over a box of chocolates, which Mycroft took, and then stared at more intently.

“I…thank you. Thank you indeed,” Mycroft murmured.

John handed over a bottle, which Mycroft also accepted, and they moved into the sitting room, Sherlock immediately prowling around, snooping, whilst John and Lestrade sat on the sofa, catching up. Mycroft poured drinks, and damped down the touch of jealousy that flared at the easy laughter between the two men.

The dinner was pleasant - Mycroft had cooked whole quails, with vegetables and boiled potatoes, with a light tiramisu to finish. He had, of course, paired the wine with the meal, so the bottle John bought was untouched. The chocolates Lestrade bought were also untouched, and carefully stored in the pantry, out of sight of prying eyes.

 

Once John and Sherlock had left - Sherlock hinting he wanted to leave the moment he finished eating, and then outright saying it, once John was halfway through a glass of very expensive Scotch - Mycroft settled on the chair by the fire, opposite Lestrade.

“Keeping well?” he asked.

Lestrade nodded. “Yeah. Learning…well…life, really. It’s still…I find myself thinking about the weirdest things, you know? And I don’t…” He laughed, “I don’t even know if I’m remembering stuff or making it all up, you know?”

“You bought me chocolates,” Mycroft said. Then realised he might sound like some sort of love-sick teenager. “I mean, you bought me my favourite chocolates. And they’re not easy to find. So you remembered that, didn’t you?”

Lestrade smiled widely and nodded. “I did. I remember you’d get them out when we were doing something miserable - paperwork through the night, that sort of thing.”

Mycroft sighed contentedly. “When you’d never leave my side, however much I told you you could.”

Lestrade shrugged. “You didn’t pay me to sleep whilst you were working.” There was a pause. “And I didn’t want to.”

“Between you and Anthea…well, you kept me both alive and sane, you know.”

Lestrade didn’t answer, seeming to be fascinated with the firelight reflecting through his Scotch.

“Ever think you did the same for us?”

Mycroft looked up and frowned. “I put you in danger. For no reason other than valuing my own life above your own.”

“I don’t remember everything - you know that - but some bits have come back to me. You know how I felt after I left the army? When I’d been doing security for bigwigs who treated you like nothing more than a side of beef there to stop bullets? When I’d lost absolutely everything I’d ever lived for?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to answer, then paused, and sipped his drink. “No. No, I don’t.”

“Well. You saved me from it. From myself.”

“I…I’m glad,” Mycroft coughed, to cover the fact his voice broke a little on the last word.

 

_________________

 

Lestrade stood and stretched, then dug in his pocket for his phone, which had just chimed - Anthea and John had both helped him learn what it was capable of. He barely ever used any of it. Map and tube map, sometimes. Calls, rarely. Texts, more often. Mycroft didn’t like texting, whereas Lestrade liked it a lot. So they communicated in a lopsided manner. A text sent, a phone call or email received in response.

This, however, was from Anthea.

‘M will invite you to Christmas dinner. Pls say yes!’

He smiled. Anthea loved texting, and he often found his phone full of amusing observations about the day, her work, or Mycroft. Sometimes he could almost grasp onto memories of their time together, but he never knew if they were real.

‘Will do, promise’ He replied, then shoved his phone back in his pocket and rubbed his hands together. The weather was cold, and the ground heavy and hard in the frost.

They were digging out some shrubs along a walkway and replacing them in time for Spring, as well as pruning back some of the fruit trees around the park. It was hard work, but he was enjoying himself - the complete change in lifestyle was changing his body, moving from decidedly skinny after years of poor diet to much more muscular and solid, and he felt more like himself. He’d even taken up jogging again, enjoying exploring his new neighbourhood, and feeling better, once he knew the area. John had teased him about it, when he’d mentioned it to him. Saying something about checking out his territory.

“Oi, want to do clean up?” Ray called.

Lestrade nodded. He’d been digging the old shrubs out, before Ray replaced them, and he’d just finished the last one. He headed back to their truck and got out the broom, spade and leaf vacuum, ready to tidy everywhere they’d been working, plus all the leaves in the area, before they turned into a slippery mulch.

 

_________________

 

That night, as he’d been warned, his phone rang, and Mycroft did indeed invite him to join himself and Anthea over Christmas.

Various lights and decorations has been springing up in shop windows and on the streets for weeks, now, and he was beginning to look forward to the break - he’d been unsure of how to deal with the enforced time off, at first, but he thought a mixture of staying with Mycroft and Anthea, seeing John for a few drinks, and a bit of time on his own, would probably do him good. 

He finished his last shift at lunchtime on Christmas eve, but was quickly dragged to the pub by his colleagues, and had a few pints, enjoying the easy banter and joking amongst the teams, many of whom he barely knew. Ray knew everyone, though, and the laughter came easily.

Once people started to drift away, home to their families, Lestrade left too, knowing he needed to pack a few items before going to Mycroft’s for the next few days, as he’d been instructed.

_______________

 

The residential streets around Mycroft’s house were quiet, almost as if everyone had already hunkered down for the festive season. Plenty of windows had decorations or lights twinkling in them, and many of the front doors were adorned by large wreaths, glinting with silver and gold.

He turned onto the familiar road, and habit dictated that he look into each car as he passed, glancing up at each house, almost subconsciously checking for anything which seemed amiss.

When he had almost reached the gate into Mycroft’s small front garden he did notice something. A slight movement in a first floor window in a house which otherwise stood in darkness - no decorations, no signs of life. He remembered it had been empty when he’d been living with Mycroft. Probably owned by a non-dom. Instead of reaching for the keypad to get into Mycroft’s he kept walking, his heart rate picking up slightly.

At the end of the road he turned right, hoping to circle around the back of the property which had made him suspicious.

He was thwarted by the lack of a back alleyway or any sort of access into the rear gardens, but kept going, knowing that at the worst he could just retrace his steps.

A single-width track finally led to some garages, which would at least get him closer to his goal. He went down it, counting along the roofline until he determined he was only three gardens away from the house which had piqued his interest. There was a sturdy brick wall which led away from the yard he stood in, separating the back gardens of the two rows of houses, which looked to lead all the way along, so he carefully reached up and touched the top, checking for broken glass embedded in the capping or anti-climb paint. When he found neither he cautiously pulled himself up onto it, crouching low, and made his way along it, fighting past overgrown bushes and tree branches, expecting at any moment to be challenged by an irate home-owner. As his eyes grew used to the comparative gloom away from streetlights, he saw the moss on the wall was disturbed - it could easily have been done by an animal, but also by anyone else gaining access as he was.

He reached the back garden of the house he’d been heading for. It was overgrown - a lawn once well tended now with long grass, gone to seed. A pond was filled with leaves and sludge and flower beds were overgrown with weeds, brown and dead now in the hard frosts. All the windows stood in darkness, a film of dirt on them, dulling the reflections. He paused, knowing he was quite well hidden in the branches of a holly bush, and watched; and for the first time wondered just what he was doing. This was no longer his job, or his responsibility. Except, of course, that Mycroft would always be his responsibility, somehow.

He lowered himself down to the ground next to a very dilapidated old shed, and dropped his rucksack there, knowing it would only hinder him. He crept down the garden, keeping close to the wall, trying to avoid the driest of twigs or anything else which might alert anyone to his presence.

There was still no movement, so he quietly descended the few steps to a paved area outside the back door, and melted into the shadows there for a long moment, watching and waiting.

When he dared to step forward again he could see fresh marks on the doorframe, a splinter of new wood, and divots which had been rubbed clean by a tool prying and levering. He knew it was a huge risk, but he pushed down on the handle, alert and ready to stop at the slightest noise. It was, however, freshly oiled, as he realised when it swung open and there were lines of greasy dirt trickling down from the hinges.

He stepped inside, closing the door again, thankful there was no breeze to cause a draught through the house.

On a surface, away from the window, stood a container of milk and a small camping stove. Lestrade picked up the milk, turning the container to the dim light coming through the window and read the use-by date. It was the 25th of December, so he placed it down exactly where it had come from, knowing his quarry had been there recently, and intended to stay. There were a few supermarket shopping bags, too, but he didn’t dare touch them for fear of making a noise.

He crept forward in the darkness, knowing from the layout of the house that this floor would be the basement from street level; so two storeys below where he had seen movement. 

 

As he silently slipped up the first flight of stairs, keeping to the edges to try to avoid any creaky flooring, his hand brushed over the hard lump in his jeans pocket. He inwardly cursed himself for forgetting he had a mobile phone. He could easily have called for help - but not now, where the light of the screen or the sound of his voice could give him away. He reached the ground floor, and stopped, every sense alert for any movement, but the house was still and silent.

Then there was a sound, a scrape, the slight noise of weight on a floorboard, and a very low mumble of voices, almost impossible to pick out against the background of London’s noises.

Lestrade could feel his heartbeat increase, so he breathed deeply, ready, and moved again, away from the stairs, silently peering into each room as best he could to check he was alone.

He headed for the back of the house, and in the room he thought was furthest from the intruders he pulled out his phone, shielding it with his free hand, and quickly tapped out a message.

‘In house opp M’s. Intruders on obbo. prep back up don’t move in’ he wrote, and hit send to Anthea’s number.

He then moved on again, shoes silent on the wood flooring, and turned the bottom of the stairs, carefully treading onto it and moving up, tight against the wall.

He heard nothing, but suddenly there was a figure, dressed entirely in black, at the top of the stairs.

“Oi!” the voice was shocked - far more surprised than he was, certainly.

Lestrade turned and ran, knowing that he’d have at least a few seconds on the man.

He span around the newel post at the top of the next flight of stairs, crashed off the wall with his shoulder as he ran down them two at a time. He flew through the basement, the sounds of pursuit now loud behind him, and out of the back door. It was dark, but he knew that alone wouldn’t be enough to save him. He leapt up the steps onto the lawn and realised he’d have to abandon his things for now. As he neared the rear wall of the garden he adjusted his stride and leapt for the top of it.

Pain exploded in his lower leg as he hauled himself up. He hadn’t heard the sharp crack of a gunshot, so they must have had a suppressor - these were no housebreakers nor thieves, they were professionals, and he had no idea what he’d uncovered, but he was certain someone’s life was in danger - along with his own. There were no shortage of people living in the area who could have been targets.

He shoved himself headfirst off the wall and into the unknown, crashing through bushes and landing on the reassuring soft, sweet smelling warmth of a compost heap.

It at least meant the wall gave him cover from the shooter, but he knew he would be discovered within moments if he didn’t keep going.

He dug his phone from his pocket and fumbled through the pattern-lock as he scrambled through the compost and undergrowth, he hit Mycroft’s number - thankfully the last one he’d been called from - and tried to get his feet underneath him to run. The pain was immense, and he bit back a yelp, knowing he wouldn’t get far. He half dragged himself down the garden, just glad he could still put some weight on his leg, trying to listen out for his attackers as well as spot somewhere to hide, and finally, knowing he couldn’t make it much further, fell behind a child’s play-house, in a thick bush which scraped and scratched him as he wormed into it.

He finally put his phone to his ear.

“…are on the way, we have you on the tracker, please advise if the intruders are armed and how many there are.”

It was Mycroft’s voice, cool and collected.

“Two, I think” he panted, as quietly as he could. “Armed. Suppressors on handguns, possibly snipers.”

“Greg? You’re…” Mycroft’s voice lost a good deal of the calm tone it had held.

“Yeah. I’m pinned down, house backing onto the one opposite yours. Back garden.” He fell silent as he saw the head and shoulders of someone appear at the top of the wall. He left the line open, but shoved the phone back in his pocket to hide the light.

In the distance, although he wasn’t sure if he was either imagining it or it had nothing to do with his predicament, he heard a helicopter.

A moment later he saw the figure pull themselves up onto the top of the wall, looking around into the various gardens nearby in a low crouch. Then there was a low whistle, and he realised the man on the wall wasn’t the shooter - there was another man, in the window on the first floor, gesturing to show he had gone straight over into the garden, not either side.

Lestrade held his breath. The man on the wall followed his earlier route, far more quietly, and dropped down into the garden. He was only five or so metres away from Lestrade now, sweeping the area.

Lestrade reached into the dirt, glad it was softer underneath the shelter of the undergrowth, and rubbed the handful of soil he grabbed into his face, never taking his eyes off the man’s slow progress.

The shed was examined, even the tiny gap between it and the wall, and Lestrade knew he would be found.

His leg burned with pain, but even if he could move, the noise would give him away. Surprise was his only weapon.

As the man began walking again, a measured, silent tread over the grass, peering into the undergrowth, Lestrade gathered himself.

Just as the man approached the child’s play house Lestrade was behind there was a noise from over the wall, a strangled cry and a crash.

The man turned, obviously shocked, and Lestrade knew it must be Mycroft’s security detail heading for them.

The helicopter arrived overhead, the spotlight on it bathing the entire area in a bright blinding light, and Lestrade almost gave a sigh of relief, until the man turned and ran toward the house. Knowing someone was about to have their Christmas, if not their life, ruined, Lestrade scrambled to standing, his shoe squelching with warm wet blood, grabbing the play house for support.

“Oi!” he yelled. “Looking for me?”


	10. Chapter 10

Faces were appearing in windows of the houses which overlooked them - kids and adults, twitching curtains and peering up at the helicopter.

Then man turned, hesitating, lifting his arm as if raising a weapon, and Lestrade took his chance, hurling a tennis ball he’d found next to the house at the man, and then an entire section of the roof of the plastic structure, which flew like a frisbee, causing the man to throw his arms up to defend himself as the object whirled through the air. He followed it with anything he could lay his hands on - the other half of the roof, a football, a toy wheelbarrow and then some satisfyingly hard water-filled boules, one after another. The man snapped off one wild shot, which crashed through the bushes a few metres to Lestrade’s right.

Finally a shout and bobbing lights heralded the arrival of several of the Met Police’s finest officers over the wall, all wearing body armour, guns levelled at both Lestrade and the other man.

“He’s armed,” Lestrade said. “Handgun, possibly other weapons.”

“And you?” A voice called.

“Nothing.” Lestrade answered, raising his hands as best he could and wobbling as he did so, feeling decidedly light headed. “I’ve got a gunshot wound, lower leg. And…I think I might pass out,” he warned them.

“Stay still,” the command came back, apparently not caring about Lestrade’s rapidly loosening grip on consciousness.

A man came forward, weapon still raised, and shone the light in Lestrade’s face. “Hands where I can see them, don’t move,” he warned, before reaching out with one hand and frisking Lestrade. “Clear,” he called out, and someone else emerged from the gloom, riot cuffs at the ready, to restrain Lestrade.

“I really think…I need Anthea,” Lestrade felt himself start to black out, vision white then grey, and as he stumbled pain lanced through him. He was out of it before he hit the ground.

When he came to he felt sick and cold, and realised very little about his situation had changed - Anthea was kneeling beside him, giving orders to someone else, but he was still in the back garden, on the cold grass, with someone holding his leg up in the air, every tiny movement they made sending stabs of pain through him.

“Greg?” she asked, her voice soft.

“Think ‘m gonna throw up,” he mumbled, and then did so, just missing her knees.

Anthea was all business, rolling him onto his side, which sent more agonising pain through his leg as the person supporting it tried to follow his movements, as she talked to people all around her, updating them on his condition and firing off orders. “Ambulance is on it’s way, love,” she said. “Just hang on in there.”

“M’croft all right?” Lestrade asked, wishing he hadn’t had as much to drink earlier, now his face was an inch away from the stench of vomit laced with stale beer.

“He’s fine, except for being worried sick about you,” Anthea smiled. “And going absolutely mad that no one else had spotted all this.”

Lestrade gave a small smile, imagining that someone was getting their arse handed to them on a plate right now - and with good reason.

“Cold,” he grumbled.

Anthea touched his forehead, and her hand felt cool to him. “Mmm,” she agreed, then gave some more orders to bystanders, and a moment later a foil blanket was being unfurled above him and tucked around him tightly, before another was put on the floor. “Try and get on this,” Anthea said, half dragging him onto it as she spoke. “And while we’re waiting for the paramedics you can practice what you’re going to tell Himself when he asks why you went, unarmed and alone, into a place of danger.”

“Forgot I had a phone,” Lestrade said, already feeling warmer, but still shivering. “Gonna be sick again…”

Anthea rolled him over, pulling the foil blanket back so he could vomit onto the lawn.

“Did the dog eat your homework too?” Anthea grinned as she tucked the blanket back around him.

“Thought it might be nothing,” he continued, swallowing the vile taste down.

“Uh-hu, and you just fancied a bit of breaking and entering?”

He was saved from answering by the arrival of the ambulance crew, who set about him with scissors slitting his jeans open and various monitors and drips being attached to his arms and chest.

It was all a bit of a blur, as he answered questions and listened to them chatter, before finally he was wheeled out on a stretcher, past horrified parents and inquisitive kids in their pyjamas, straining to see him between the bannisters, Father Christmas forgotten.

The ambulance ride was uneventful, with worried murmurs between Anthea and the paramedic about compartment syndrome and blood loss, but Lestrade was floating on a wave of strong painkillers, distantly aware of the paramedic checking monitors and bandages, and Anthea holding his hand very tightly.

 

He was seen by the doctors, then immediately wheeled away for various scans and x-rays, before being deposited back in the Accident and Emergency ward. Anthea stuck by him, although she spent a lot of her time writing messages and making phone calls. Finally, once various specialists had been consulted and quizzed, his leg was dressed and bandaged, he was cleaned up he was taken up in a lift to a small, private, room.

Only then did the door open and Mycroft step inside.

As he did so Anthea nodded her welcome before slipping out.

“Greg,” Mycroft whispered.

“All right?” Lestrade answered, trying to smile.

“I can’t…you must’ve…” Mycroft sank into the chair by the bedside, and Lestrade could see the pure stress in every line of his body. His face looked haggard, pale, his eyes red and bloodshot.

“Sorry,” Lestrade mumbled. “Wasn’t sure if it was even about you, really. Seemed…” He yawned widely. “Seemed silly…” He trailed off, then rubbed his eyes, dragging drip-lines across his chest. “Sorry, ‘m so tired.”

“Then sleep,” Mycroft said softly. “I’ll be here with you.”

Lestrade’s eyes slid closed, his breathing even, and Mycroft took his hand, holding it gently.

“Merry Christmas,” Mycroft murmured, as the clock rolled past midnight. He leant forward and pressed the softest of kisses onto Lestrade’s knuckles, avoiding the IV lines and surgical tape. Lestrade’s eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t stir.

Mycroft examined the handsome face - stubble accentuating Lestrade’s strong jawline. Then looked down to see scrapes and scratches marring the soft skin of Lestrade’s neck, and finally resting on the old scars on his arms, faded and white against his lightly tanned skin. He sighed. Every mark he could see was a testament to Lestrade’s dedication to keeping him safe, his willingness to put his life on the line for another.

Whereas Mycroft couldn’t even bring himself to tell the man the truth about his feelings, and about how much he missed him and how empty both the house and his life had felt since Lestrade moved out. He sighed.

 

Lestrade woke in the night, to find Mycroft dozing beside him, their hands linked.

“Mycroft?” he said.

The man jumped awake, pulling his hand away. “Yes?”

“I really need the toilet,” Lestrade grinned. “Any chance you could get a nurse?”

“Of course, yes, look, there’s a button just here they said, do you remember?” Mycroft pointed to a red button attached to the side of the bed.

Lestrade didn’t, but pressed it anyway.

Mycroft excused himself once the nurse arrived, and Lestrade could hear him talking in low tones with Anthea outside. He thanked the nurse, and once she had checked his dressings and his various drips and oxygen levels he was left alone, for the first time since he’d been hiding under the bush.

He sighed, and when he caught sight of the clock on the wall he realised it was Christmas Day. He imagined all the lovely things Mycroft would have planned, and then looked around at the bare sterile room. “Shit,” he muttered to himself, resting his head back on his pillow.

The door opened once more and both Anthea and Mycroft entered.

“Hey,” Anthea grinned and walked over to him, leaning to kiss his forehead. “Happy Christmas. Although I think the chopper scared Saint Nick and his reindeers away.”

“Sorry to mess up…I mean, it sounded lovely, everything you both had planned,” he said.

“Nonsense, we shall just postpone things,” Mycroft said, forced cheer very evident in his voice.

“You wait,” Anthea winked. “Soon as you’re out of here you’ll have festive cheer coming at you from all sides.”

 

The next day Lestrade was taken to surgery early, followed everywhere by two burly security guards whom he didn’t recognise, but had been assigned by Anthea. When he awoke he was groggy and felt horrible, but was still pleased to see Mycroft by his side, reading a file, glasses perched on the end of his nose.

He just lay still, watching, annoyed by the slight tickle of oxygen going up his nose, but not wanting to alert Mycroft to the fact he was awake yet.

Finally Mycroft glanced up.

“Goodness! You’re awake. How are you? I must call the doctor.”

“‘M fine,” he answered. “Thirsty.”

“They said the surgery was successful,” Mycroft fussed with a glass and jug, then tried to work out how to raise the head of the bed with the controller.

“Good,” Lestrade tried to reach for the water, but his arms were like lead, and his hands shook.

“Here,” Mycroft guided the pink straw to his lips. “Slowly,” he cautioned.

Lestrade sipped the drink a few times, before nodding his thanks.

“Didn’t think you’d be here,” he said.

“Nonsense, of course, where else would I be?” Mycroft smiled. “If it weren’t for me you would be enjoying a well earned break, not stuck in here. The least I can do is accompany you.”

Lestrade allowed his head to loll back against the pillow, gazing at Mycroft through sleepy eyes, taking in the messed up hair, the tie which was loosened, the top button of the shirt undone. Mycroft looked like hell, yet he sat in a hard plastic chair next to an ex-employee, rather than cosy at home with all the luxuries of the season.

“I love you,” he said softly.

Mycroft stared.

“I mean…” he started to qualify it, then shook his head. “No, I just love you. I have for…years. I mean, I think…this is so hard to explain. But I love you. I would do anything for you.”

“I love you too,” Mycroft said in a rush, wanting to reassure, to grab the moment.

He reached out, dragging his chair closer, and wrapped both his hands around Lestrade’s. “I feel so terribly foolish, because sometimes I have…suspected…but I was afraid if I were ever to say anything or act upon it, I wouldn’t only lose the chance to love you, but also your friendship. And when I did…lose you, it…it ripped the very soul out of me, yet when I found you again I was so scared I would frighten you away that still I did not…”

Lestrade tangled his fingers with Mycroft’s and squeezed, bringing Mycroft’s chaotic attempts at explanation to a halt.

“Said it now, haven’t we?” He looked into Mycroft’s pale eyes. “And neither of us is is going anywhere."

Mycroft nodded, almost eagerly.

Lestrade pulled the oxygen tubes off his face and reached to grab Mycroft’s tie, pulling him out of the chair and half on top of him.

“Then give us a kiss.”

Mycroft leant forward, their lips barely touching, just breathing the same warm air, stroking his hand down through Lestrade’s silky hair and over his rough stubble.

“We’ve got a lot of wasted time to catch up on,” Lestrade grinned, reaching and squeezing Mycroft’s bum.

Mycroft began to splutter his indignation when a sharp knock on the door had him leaping away like a guilty schoolboy, but Lestrade kept a tight hold on his hand as a nurse entered.

“Mr Lestrade? Awake then I see,” she gave Mycroft a warning look. “And how are you feeling?”

“Brilliant,” Lestrade grinned.

A smile tugged at the nurse’s lips, but she smothered it with a frown. “There was strict instruction to call us, when you awoke,” she said, sternly, to Mycroft.

“I am most terribly sorry,” Mycroft began. “He has only…”

“No harm done,” she said, cutting through Mycroft’s excuses. “I’m sure he’d rather see you than me. Now, soon as you are able, doctor wants you up and moving,” she said to Lestrade. “And no doubt so does whoever’s waiting for you to go home.” Her gaze slid pointedly to Mycroft.

Lestrade grinned up at Mycroft again, and Mycroft blushed bright red.

_____________

 

It was the next day before Lestrade was actually allowed out of his room, to prove he was fit for release, albeit with a lot of supervision.

He’d had it explained to him that the plates and pins in his fibula would have to come out again, in the near future, and that he was to take it easy, but also do his exercises each day. Walking wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was definitely bearable, if he used his crutches carefully and didn’t put too much weight on his injured leg. Of course, telling Mycroft he was fine and promising he wouldn’t fall didn’t stop the man hovering by his elbow, arms ready to catch him.

It didn’t surprise him when Anthea turned up at the doors of the hospital in a huge four-by-four, followed by an equally large vehicle for his security escort, who had never strayed far from his side. Mycroft helped him in, and seemed about to try to do up his seatbelt for him.

“Honestly, Mycroft, it’s one little bit of my leg that got shot,” he smiled.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just…”

“The second we’re back at yours, you can do everything for me,” he said, as if bestowing a great favour upon Mycroft. “Starting with a very strong coffee. And send the biggest box of chocolates you can find to the hospital staff.”

Mycroft smiled. “Of course.”

 

He was soon installed upon the sofa, leg propped on the very softest cushions, complete with a cool-pack, as advised by his doctors, water by his side and the TV remote control, before Mycroft headed for the kitchen and Lestrade heard the coffee maker gurgle into life. He rested back, looking at the large Christmas tree, traditionally decorated and with lights twinkling away, and the garland draped over the mantelpiece. It all seemed a bit unreal to him, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the drugs or the fact his last few Christmases had been spent huddled in a doorway, alone except for a free Christmas meal in a soup kitchen.

“So,” he said, when Mycroft returned, carrying a tray with coffee, tea, mince pies and juice, finally just the two of them, alone once more.

“So?” Mycroft questioned, sitting beside him.

“Well…what we said. Back there.”

“I meant it,” Mycroft stated baldly. “And…I would very much like you to move in here, with me. The house has seemed so empty since you left.”

Greg nodded. “I’d like that.”

“And…and I do understand if you feel this is going too far - I’d like you to leave your job, and…”

“Ah, I don’t know, Mycroft,” Lestrade started.

“Only because Anthea believes you would be better suited to something akin to your old job, again. I mean, my lifestyle has changed, so there is not quite such a focus on…close protection. Although recent events may suggest otherwise. But on general security concerns, for myself and those who work for me. Mainly based in London, with occasional travel.”

Lestrade smiled. “I…yeah, okay, I’ll talk to her about that.”

“That’s all I ask,” Mycroft smiled back. “If you would truly prefer your new role, then of course you must continue. I must say, I cannot pretend I haven’t noticed the…effect it has had on your physique.”

“Oh yeah?” Lestrade shifted, tipping sideways until his shoulder rested against Mycroft’s. “Been spending a lot of time checking out my physique, have you?”

Mycroft blushed again. “I do not…if you must know, I spent enough time doing that before, when we worked together. You…well, let’s say that if you did notice, you never let me know.”

Lestrade laughed. “I’ve no idea if I did or not. But I’m sure I wouldn’t have wanted to embarrass you.”

Mycroft poured a coffee and passed it to Lestrade, then awkwardly managed to put his arm around Lestrade’s shoulders. “Perhaps it would be better if you had.”

“No it wouldn’t. What would have happened when you lost me then? You could’ve brought down half the world’s governments.” Lestrade snuggled into Mycroft’s side.

“How do you know I didn’t?” Mycroft chuckled. “I must admit, my mind was not on the job.”

“We’re all still here,” Lestrade answered, sipping his coffee. “No one pressed the big red button.”

 

Mycroft very carefully helped Lestrade up to the master bedroom that night, ensuring there were plenty of pillows to prop him on, and everything he could need within reach.

“They did say I had to try and walk,” Lestrade protested, as Mycroft all but carried him to the bathroom.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Mycroft answered.

“I suppose that means any other…exercise is also off the menu?” he grinned.

Mycroft blushed once more. “I think perhaps that would be for the best.”

“Shame,” Lestrade dragged his hand over Mycroft’s arse.

 

Although Mycroft made it very clear nothing was going to happen between them, Lestrade still took great pleasure in pulling Mycroft close, so they could lie skin-to-skin, arms around one another.

“What’s it like?” Mycroft asked. “Losing your memory? I rely so heavily on mine I…I can’t imagine it.”

Lestrade was quiet for a while, and Mycroft didn’t push.

“It’s…tiring. Mainly.” He finally said. “Like…you spend a lot of time second guessing everything. And I mean everything. At first, in hospital, it…was okay. I mean, I could sleep, and they’d feed me. I suppose I didn’t really think about that, when I escaped.”

“No. That must have been…a challenge,” Mycroft said carefully.

“I got in a bad way, for a bit. I almost went back, to be honest. But…I thought they might send me back, to where John found me, and…and I couldn’t do that. So. I learnt. Quickly.”

Mycroft held him closer, hands tangled together. “I really…”

“I begged. At first. Found all the local soup kitchens. Churches. I hated asking for money. Seemed…but I had to. And some people were very kind.”

Mycroft shifted slightly, thinking of all the hundreds of people he had walked past in his life - perhaps even looked down upon, as they sat, signs or receptacles in front of them. He had never dropped so much as a penny into them, always assuming the worst.

“And all the time there were…thoughts, images, memories, floating about, impossible to catch, no matter how hard I tried. And the harder I did try, the further they seemed out of reach. And after a while…I didn’t know what was new, what was old, what I’d made up, nothing.”

“But…now you seem…you seem to be remembering.”

Lestrade nodded. “Suppose I needed a foundation, to build on. And people to…check with. To tell me what was right.”

“I wish…I wish we had looked harder. I can’t believe we didn’t hear, when you were brought back to the country…”

Lestrade held his hand up to Mycroft’s lips.

“It doesn’t matter now. We’re here. It’s done. Not even you can turn back the clock.”

“No, but…”

“And it’s led to this,” Lestrade continued. “It’s led to us. And Anthea told me your lot have found a place to set up the help centre, for people who are still on the streets, or struggling. So it’s not all bad, huh?”

Mycroft smiled, and kissed the fingers covering his lips. “Not bad at all,” he murmured.

______________

 

The next day Mycroft was determined to celebrate Christmas, so he cooked a large roast, with all the trimmings, and whilst he did so he listened in on the conversation between Anthea and Lestrade, as they went through new duties he could perform, and various things - such as computing and surveillance equipment which he needed to learn about as what knowledge he had was very dated.

By the time everything was in the oven cooking, and Mycroft finally made it out to join them, they were both smiling and laughing.

“So?” he asked.

Lestrade put on an innocent look. “So…”

“Anthea has outlined your potential new role. What did you think?”

Lestrade grinned at Anthea. “Don’t know what you mean. I was just giving her advice on when to plant out a few nice bulbs, and she was giving me her favourite cupcake recipe.”

Mycroft sighed. “Fine, fine, I shall work my fingers to the bone preparing a delicious meal, whilst you two mock me.”

“Come here,” Lestrade patted the seat next to him. “And don’t be a drama queen. I’ve said I’m interested in the job, Anthea’s going to bring me more info. That’s all.”

 

______________

 

Despite his attraction to Lestrade, Mycroft had never really been one for fantasising, and, as such, the physical aspect of their relationship almost took him by surprise. He always enjoyed climbing into a cold bed to be met by a very warm body, and he was most grateful that Lestrade didn't allow him to be self conscious. He was always dragged into a hug, or found an arm over his waist, before he could even think about all the parts of himself which were quite plainly unattractive. Lestrade obviously wasn't put off, either, if the kisses pressed to his skin, the gently caressing fingers or full-body hugs were anything to go by. Lestrade seemed to find it so easy to make physical contact. A hug, a hand sliding over Mycroft’s neck when he sat at his desk, teeth nibbling his ear as he stood in the kitchen, preparing food, fingers entwining as they watched TV. He tried to be as free with his own affection, but it was the sort of thing which just didn’t ever quite occur to him.

"So," Lestrade asked, one night when they had both settled under the covers. "Are you being polite, or are you waiting for me to be ready, or are you just not up for it?"

Mycroft stared, confused.

"'Cause, you know, I would be. If you were."

"I...I'm sorry, I don't..." Mycroft stuttered, completely flummoxed.

"Sex!" Lestrade laughed. "At first I figured you were just being careful with me, given the state of me. Now I'm wondering if you're just...not up for it? Which is fine, if you’re not into that stuff but...well, I'd like to know."

"No, I assure you, I am...um...up for it, as you say."

"But...?" Lestrade questioned.

"It is not, shall we say, an area in which I am entirely proficient."

"Oh." Lestrade’s hand stilled from where it had been stroking Mycroft’s arm. "But you have..."

"Yes! Yes. I have. There...always seemed to be...well, the earth didn't move. I don't think. Unless..."

Lestrade laughed again, pressing a kiss on Mycroft's reddening cheek. "It doesn't always. We talking about...y'know, relationships? One night stands? Errr...professionals?"

"Goodness me!" Mycroft blurted out. "No, not....they were relationships. Rather short lived ones. And somewhat....historic."

"Ah. Well, here we are. Hopefully not short-lived, and definitely now."

"Yes." Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Want to...try something, then?" Lestrade asked.

And Mycroft nodded, mutely.

Lestrade pulled the covers back, kissing Mycroft on the lips before sliding down the bed, dropping kisses on Mycroft’s belly on the way down.

Mycroft stared as Lestrade lay between his legs, wrapping his hand around Mycroft’s cock. He wasn’t surprised by the speed he was hard though, as Lestrade began licking and sucking and making very appreciative noises.

“I…I…” Mycroft started.

“This okay?” Lestrade cut in.

“Yes, yes,” Mycroft quickly reassured, staring openly as his cock disappeared into Lestrade’s mouth.

He knew it would be over quickly, the sensations were so overwhelming, but even when he gave Lestrade warning the other man didn’t stop - in fact, it just seemed to spur him on. Until Mycroft was groaning, trying desperately not to thrust too hard as he came down Lestrade’s throat. He lay, panting and being entirely useless, only registering that Lestrade seemed to be licking him clean when the sensations were just too much on the tip of his cock.

“Well,” Lestrade flopped down beside him, dragging the cover over them both. “Been wanting to do that for literally as long as I’ve known you,” he grinned.

Mycroft blinked, trying to formulate any sort of sentence.

“Yes.” He finally managed.

“Don’t tell me I’ve sucked you speechless,” Lestrade nudged him.

Mycroft smiled despite himself. “You rather have, actually,” he dragged Lestrade onto him, wrapping his arms around him. “Shall I…” he gestured down the bed.

“Mmm, whatever you want,” Lestrade leant over and kissed him.

Mycroft put to the back of his mind all thoughts about where Lestrade’s mouth had just been. Then tentatively reached down, jumping a little when his hand encountered Lestrade’s very hard cock.

Lestrade kept kissing him, rocking his hips slightly, and Mycroft became bolder, wrapping his fingers around Lestrade’s length, settling into a rhythm which seemed all back-to-front, but nevertheless made Lestrade groan as they continued to kiss.

Lestrade rolled onto his back, dragging Mycroft on top of him.

“Keep going,” he panted, and Mycroft nodded, dumbly, keeping up the rhythm, pressing kisses along Lestrade’s jaw before going back to his mouth, feeling far more in control now he was on top and Lestrade was the one panting and twitching below him.

He felt Lestrade’s cock grow impossibly harder in his hand and then the cool slickness covering his knuckles, allowing his hand to slide more freely.

“Oh God,” Lestrade panted, pulling Mycroft into a tight hug against his chest. “That was…”

“I’m sorry I didn’t…” Mycroft began.

“Shh,” Lestrade cut him off. “Was perfect. You’re perfect.”

They lay in a sticky, sweaty embrace, until Mycroft could bear it no longer, and excused himself to head for the bathroom and wash.

____________

 

As it turned out, there was rather more to the subject of sex and intimacy than Mycroft had ever realised. He had always held a slightly scientific-text-book sort of a view on it all.

When Lestrade asked him about porn Mycroft denied ever having watched any.

"Never?" Lestrade stared.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Okay, yes, at University there was...some. It was hideous. Unfit men with frankly terrible facial hair having very blurry, loud, vigorous sex, with women, speaking German with possibly the worst music I have ever heard in my life in the background. It was enough to put anyone off."

Lestrade laughed so hard he cried.

Then he'd introduced Mycroft to parts of the internet it had never even crossed Mycroft's mind to search for.

"I'm in Brussels for two nights with this Heads of States thing," Lestrade grinned. "You have homework to do. I want a list of five things you want to try ready by the time I get home."


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft made his list. It was over a page long, in the end, handwritten, as he was terrified of anyone getting hold of it from his computer.

 

That night he complained to Lestrade that he might have caused himself RSI of the wrist whilst writing the list. It was only the next day, in the middle of a conference call with four world leaders that he suddenly realised why Lestrade had found the statement so hilarious that he had actually snorted with laughter, and Mycroft had blushed from toes to scalp and broken out into a sweat.

 

That evening he got home to find a very nice bottle of red breathing and a light dinner being prepared.

 

"Thought we'd have an early night," Lestrade winked.

 

"You deserve to sleep in the spare room," Mycroft frowned. "I meant RSI from writing, not…self-pleasure. And I only realised what you meant at a very...inconvenient moment today."

 

Lestrade laughed at him once more, but redeemed himself with a kiss and the offer of a glass of wine.

 

 

 

"So," Lestrade started, later that evening, leading Mycroft into their bedroom by the hand. "What shall we do?"

 

"I think we should...see where the mood takes us," Mycroft said, avoiding the question.

 

"Well, I'm definitely in the mood for you and me to be naked," Lestrade started pulling Mycroft's tie undone.

 

Mycroft couldn't help but agree, and a short time later he stood pressed against Lestrade, being thoroughly kissed, the other man’s arms loose around his waist.

 

"Mmmmm," Lestrade rested the tips of their noses together. "You are one very sexy man, Mr Holmes.”

 

“As are you,” Mycroft murmured, allowing his fingertips to trace over Lestrade’s stomach, up to his chest, then his jaw.

 

Lestrade kissed him again, softly, small gentle kisses with dry lips, moving from Mycroft’s mouth to his cheek, ending with a small nibble and gush of warm breath on Mycroft’s ear.

 

“That tickles,” Mycroft squirmed away.

 

Lestrade used the movement to spin Mycroft around, and gently shove him toward the bed. “What tickles your fancy, though?” He asked, advancing on Mycroft, who had sat on the edge of the bed.

 

“I…really…” Mycroft hesitated. “I really find this sort of thing very difficult,” he finished, weakly.

 

Lestrade sat next to him, taking his hand.

 

“Do you trust me?” He asked, seriously.

 

Mycroft nodded.

 

“And, if I did something you didn’t enjoy, or that made you feel uncomfortable, even if it was on the list, would you tell me? No matter how awkward you felt?”

 

Mycroft sighed. “I think so?”

 

“I don’t mind taking the lead a bit here. But I have to know you’ll tell me to stop if you don’t like something. Even if I seem like I’m enjoying it, it doesn’t matter. I won’t enjoy it if I realise you’re not. This is about both of us, enjoying each other.”

 

Mycroft smiled, “I will say. I promise.”

 

“Now get in that bed, before I get so cold you won’t even be able to find my cock.”

 

 

Lestrade dragged the duvet over them both, then slid his hand down Mycroft’s side, over his hip, and between his legs.

 

Mycroft sighed at the gentle touches, and allowed himself to relax. Lestrade’s hand was confident, stroking him, gently cupping his balls, stroking the fine hairs, sliding the loose skin up and down.

 

“Nice?” Lestrade smiled, as Mycroft’s cock grew harder in his hand.

 

“Very.”

 

“Good.” Lestrade disappeared under the covers, and Mycroft felt himself being pushed onto his back just before he was engulfed in the heat and wet of Lestrade’s mouth.

 

“Oh my goodness,” Mycroft murmured, not only at the sensation, but at the flurry of visions it brought to mind, having read and watched so many things over the previous nights, without once touching himself, no matter how much he wanted to.

 

“Mmm?” The heap of duvet cover asked.

 

Mycroft’s eyes shot open at the vibrations, and he wrestled to push the duvet away.

 

Lestrade helped shove the cover off his head, and looked up at Mycroft, still sucking on his cock.

 

Mycroft closed his eyes again, the sight almost too much for him.

 

Lestrade sucked up and off. “Okay?” he asked, before delicately licking around Mycroft’s foreskin, waiting for an answer.

 

“I really…don’t think it will be long before I…before this is all over,” Mycroft said quickly. “I have…been awaiting your return, and now I realise…that perhaps I should have, er, not denied myself in such a way.”

 

“Mmm,” Lestrade swallowed down on his cock again, before pulling back off. “Denied yourself, huh?” He moved to licking Mycroft’s balls, which earned a squirm and his head almost being crushed between Mycroft’s thighs. “That is very, very, sexy.” He sucked one of Mycroft’s bollocks.

 

“That tickles, and really, does nothing else for me,” Mycroft explained.

 

“Okay. Balls off the menu,” Lestrade answered.

 

“Unless barbecued?” Mycroft giggled.

 

“That is not,” Lestrade kissed Mycroft’s thigh, “An attractive image.”

 

“Are we going to…” Mycroft trailed off.

 

“Going to…?” Lestrade asked, continuing to drop kisses on Mycroft’s thighs, belly, and dick.

 

“Have sex,” Mycroft said in a quiet voice.

 

Lestrade stopped. “I…kind of thought that’s what we were doing? Unless I’m having a very nice dream…” His tongue darted out and lapped at the tip of Mycroft’s cock.

 

“I mean…proper sex. It is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Mycroft looked down at Lestrade.

 

“It…this is proper sex. It’s not all about, you know, cocks and arseholes. This is sex. But…if you want some..of that…then…yes. If you feel ready, I’d love to.”

 

“I did do some reading. And watching. About…it.” Mycroft started to blush again, and hated his body’s betrayal.

 

“Oh yes?” Lestrade went back to sucking the tip of Mycroft’s cock, as it began to soften a little.

 

“I bought lube. I mean, I looked it up, read the reviews. It’s supposed to be the best one.”

 

“That,” Lestrade took a long suck. “Is the most Mycroft-y thing you’ve said all night.”

 

Mycroft tipped his head back onto the pillow. He didn’t want Lestrade watching him for the next part of the conversation.

 

“So, um, do you want to…I also bought gloves. In the bedside drawer. If you wanted to…it seemed rather unsavoury to…you know, with bare hands?”

 

“You mean if I wanted to get this gorgeous cock,” Lestrade gave the appendage in question a few long licks. “Up my arse?”

 

That made Mycroft look down at him again.

 

“I thought you’d want to…you know…me.”

 

Lestrade crawled up his body, making Mycroft jump a little, and squirm slightly, especially as the cool air hit his wet flesh.

 

“I’d love to ‘you know’ you. But only if you want me to. And after all this…” he reached between them and slid his fist up and down Mycroft’s cock. “Hard work, I wondered if you wanted to ‘you know’ me.”

 

“I wasn’t sure you…would like that?”

 

“Are you sure that you like it?” Lestrade asked. And took in the expression that flitted across Mycroft’s face. “Because you don’t look that sure.”

 

“I haven’t always found it…entirely enjoyable,” Mycroft didn’t meet Lestrade’s steady gaze.

 

“And the other way around?” Lestrade bent and kissed Mycroft’s neck, giving the other man a chance to answer without being under such close surveillance.

 

“I’ve never tried it.”

 

“Maybe it’s time you did then?”

 

“I…I really…”

 

“Or we don’t have to do anything more than we’re doing now,” Lestrade said. “No pressure.”

 

“I couldn’t bear to hurt you,” Mycroft said softly. “And I fear I will.”

 

Lestrade rolled over, dragging Mycroft on top of him. “You won’t. Or at least, even if you do, you won’t mean to, you’ll stop if I say so, and that’s what matters.” He reached up for a kiss.

 

Mycroft kissed him back, and Lestrade grabbed two handfuls of his arse, grinding them together.

 

Lestrade could feel Mycroft’s dick filling out again, and kept kissing him.

 

“So,” Lestrade finally said. “Want me to do a bit of prep?”

 

Mycroft nodded.

 

“You’re not the only one who’s been shopping,” Lestrade grinned.

 

 

Mycroft rolled off him, so Lestrade reached for his bedside cabinet, and pulled out a black cloth bag, with a drawstring.

 

“You can open that,” he passed it to Mycroft. “While I get everything else.”

 

He pulled some wet wipes out of the same drawer, then clambered off the bed and grabbed a couple of towels before heading to Mycroft’s side of the bed and finding the box of surgical gloves, a huge pump-bottle of lube and a box of condoms.

 

“This…” Mycroft said, holding up the object from the bag. “Looks…dangerous.”

 

Lestrade grinned. “It’s perfectly safe, I promise.”

 

He took the glass dildo, ripped open a condom packet, and rolled the rubber down, carefully checking as it covered all the bulges in the glass. Then he pumped out a handful of lube, liberally coating the condom-covered glass, he knelt next to Mycroft, leaning down to kiss him as he reached around behind himself, sliding his own slick fingers up and down his crack.

 

Mycroft could feel Lestrade’s torso moving and flexing, and a small part of him wanted to ask to watch, but he lost himself in the kisses instead, until Lestrade moved, licking over his nipples, kissing down his stomach. Mycroft glanced around as Lestrade moved to once more lick and suck on his cock, and he almost gasped as he saw Lestrade’s other hand sliding the toy in and out of himself - only by about and inch, but Mycroft was transfixed.

 

“Going to help?” Lestrade asked, in-between licks.

 

Mycroft tentatively slid a hand up Lestrade’s thigh, stroking softly, before resting it on a smooth buttock, his fingers just centimetres away from the slick, sliding glass. He waited for a moment, watching the rhythm, before touching his fingers to Lestrade’s hand, feeling the slight tremor as each bump passed through the ring of muscle. Lestrade put a little twist into the movement, and groaned with pleasure. Mycroft felt a thrill run through him, that he might be the one causing that noise, that he could excite Lestrade in the same way. He realised Lestrade’s fingers were now on top of his, guiding him, slowing down, making him push the heavy glass in and out.

 

“Fucking hell,” Lestrade breathed. Then engulfed Mycroft’s cock as if to stop himself saying any more.

 

Finally he stopped sucking, pushing up on his arms, back arched, and Mycroft didn’t believe there was a better sight in the whole universe. Lestrade reached around, pulled the dildo free and threw it onto one of the towels. He grabbed the lube accidentally scattering the condoms over the floor. “Want to wear one?” Lestrade panted.

 

“I…no, not if…you’re okay with that?”

 

“Fine with it.”

 

Then Lestrade was straddling him, reaching, his hand cool and slick, sliding over Mycroft, covering his dick with lube. Mycroft felt the tip of his cock nudging into tightness, warmth, held steady in Lestrade’s big hand, pushing in and for a moment it felt like there was no way it could fit, nowhere to go. Then a sudden slip, into a tight, hot tunnel that was almost too much for him.

 

“Oh God,” Lestrade breathed, and his free hand pressed on Mycroft’s stomach, fingertips digging into soft flesh.

 

“Oh…oh…” Mycroft felt as if he should squeeze his eyes shut, but he couldn’t, he stared, stared at his erection sliding out of view, stared at Lestrade’s, rock hard, against his flat stomach, wet with pre-cum.

 

Lestrade groaned again, and Mycroft could almost feel the sound reverberate through his cock. He found himself panting in short breaths, fingers slipping and gripping Lestrade’s thighs, his hand, any part of him Mycroft could reach. He wanted to thrust, but he knew he must not, must wait and stay in control, no matter how tempting the heat and squeeze and how perfect it all felt.

 

Finally Lestrade’s weight settled across his hips, and Mycroft couldn’t help but just tense his muscles, to slide that extra few millimetres possible by aligning their bodies perfectly.

 

Lestrade gasped at the movement.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Mycroft moved to pull back.

 

“No,” Lestrade’s hands pressed against his belly. “Just…I am so close to coming, and I swear, if you even twitch…”

 

Mycroft nodded, and waited, stroking what he hoped were long, soothing lines over Lestrade’s thighs.

 

Lestrade seemed to calm himself, get his breath back, and then he looked Mycroft in the eye. And moved, lifting himself a few inches, before sliding back down.

 

“Oh, I…uuuuuuh,” Mycroft lost the ability to form sentences, and then to speak at all.

 

Lestrade’s eyes fluttered closed, his head falling forward. “Oh God, Mycroft,” he breathed, setting a gentle rhythm, barely moving, although it still felt like almost too much.

 

Mycroft’s fingers dug into his thighs, lifting his knees, digging his heels into the mattress.

 

“Greg….” his breath hitched.

 

Greg gasped as the new angle seemed to let Mycroft thrust even deeper.

 

“Keep going, Jesus, just keep going,” Greg panted, forcing himself to open his eyes and watch Mycroft.

 

“I’m going to…Greg…” Mycroft’s grip on his thighs pulled Greg tighter against him.

 

“Do it, fuck me,” Greg flattened one hand on Mycroft’s stomach and wrapped the other around his own cock, sliding it up and down as Mycroft finally let nature take over, and thrust into him, hard and fast.

 

Mycroft’s eyes snapped open as he started to come, hands scrabbling to hold Lestrade as he thrust deep inside.

 

Lestrade took a few seconds longer, before he was coming all over Mycroft’s stomach, panting and biting back a groan.

 

Mycroft slowly released his grip on Greg, still panting, staring at Greg, eyes wide, as he took in the glow of pleasure, the slight coolness of the semen on his stomach, the sweat which lightly covered them both.

 

“That was…was…”

 

Lestrade moved, limbs heavy and slightly uncoordinated, managing to somehow disentangle himself, then fall in heap beside Mycroft.

 

“I…” Mycroft looked down at himself.

 

Greg’s arm reached out, groping around in the mess of the bedding, then dumped the chilly packet of wet-wipes on Mycroft’s chest.

 

Mycroft let out a strangled cry at the sudden cold.

 

“S’ry,” Greg mumbled, snuggling into Mycroft’s side, and managing to drag his arm through the mess on Mycroft’s stomach.

 

“Oh, you…” Mycroft attempted to tidy himself up, although felt as if he were fighting a comatose octopus, as Greg kept re-tangling their limbs.

 

“Ssshhhh,” Greg said, breathing deeply. “Just cuddle.”

 

“I am very sticky. As you must be,” Mycroft protested.

 

“Mmmmmm,” Greg agreed. “’S good. Pheromones or something. Shower soon.”

 

Mycroft gave up his struggle, made a final pass with the now-soiled wet wipe, and reached to press a kiss into Greg’s hair.

 

_____________

 

 

Mycroft began to wonder what he was letting himself in for, when he found himself receiving messages during his working day such as ‘Want to tick something else off the list?’ whilst en route to speak to the Prime Minister. Or ‘You, me, number 14, tonight’ as he sat waiting for a short meeting with Her Majesty.

 

However, Anthea also pointed out that she had never seen him smile more often, and he had to admit that she was correct. Even when Lestrade had to stay away for a night or two, working with security teams all over the World they would keep in touch - Mycroft finally finding a slight affinity with texting, admitting it was very useful, when their time-zones did not coincide neatly. And he knew that each time his phone buzzed to indicate a text had arrived a smile appeared unbidden on his face.

 

On the anniversary of Lestrade’s return into his life, Mycroft awoke early. He headed downstairs and made breakfast, including a fresh flower from the garden in a small vase on the tray. He carried it upstairs, heart beating faster, and not just at the prospect of spilling coffee on the cream carpet.

 

He settled the loaded tray on his bedside table and walked to the window, pulling open the shutters.

 

“Mmm,” Lestrade moaned from the bed. “Coffee?”

 

Mycroft turned, smiling. “I thought we would take breakfast in bed.”

 

“Really?” Lestrade sat up. “Special occasion?”

 

“Indeed.” Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed and poured them coffee, adding a little cream to each cup, as a complete extravagance. “A year ago today I attended 221b Baker Street, and found out you were still alive.”

 

“Wow. A year? Well…yeah, here’s to that,” Lestrade raised his coffee mug. “And to us,” he grinned.

 

“Yes. And…well,” he reached into his bedside drawer and pulled out a small envelope. “I rather hoped that today you might accompany me on a small shopping trip.”

 

Lestrade frowned and took the envelope, opening it silently and sliding out the small card within. On the front was a simple etching of a rose. He turned it over.

 

_When you were missing, a piece of poetry summed up my feelings._

 

_‘Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling into at night’_

 

_It summed up my hopelessness, my helplessness, my fear of facing life without you._

 

_I never wish to be without you by my side again._

 

Lestrade looked up. “That’s…”

 

Mycroft silenced him by taking his hand.

 

“Will you marry me? Will you agree to be a part of my world for as long as we both shall live?” Mycroft said, trying to keep his voice steady.

 

Lestrade gaped, then threw himself at Mycroft, wrapping him in a hug, spilling coffee onto the duvet. “Yes, yes, you bloody…romantic…of course I will.”

 

They held each other tightly, until finally Lestrade relaxed his grip a little. “And shopping?” He smiled. “As if I can’t guess.”

 

Mycroft smiled and looked a little embarrassed. “I feel a very strong urge to have a small symbol for all the world to see, that I have found a partner in my life - and I would be…honoured, if you would like one too. I have booked an appointment at a jeweller’s shop, where he will help us design some wedding rings.”

 

Lestrade laughed with pure joy. “I would love to. And a bloody big t-shirt and a tattoo saying ‘Mycroft chose me’.”

 

“I think that is…slightly unnecessary,” Mycroft smiled. “A ring is quite sufficient.”

 

Lestrade moved in to kiss him again, the smile on his face wider than Mycroft had ever seen.

 

“There is coffee on the bedding,” Mycroft observed, once he was released from the latest hug.

 

“There is about to be so much worse,” Lestrade promised, dragging him down on top of him and sliding his hand into Mycroft’s dressing gown.


	12. EPILOGUE

**2013**

 

Mycroft looked up from his desk as the door swung open. Of course he’d heard his partner come in, kick off his shoes, and predictably head straight for the kitchen - the household bill for coffee beans was substantial. Lestrade appeared, holding two mugs.

 

“Lady Grey,” he gestured with one of the mugs to Mycroft.

 

“Thank you,” Mycroft gestured to a coaster which sat by a small model of the Flying Scotsman on his desk.

 

“Good day?” Lestrade asked, heading to his own desk.

 

“Indeed,” Mycroft enjoyed the view - well fitting jeans hugged Lestrade’s arse, and his shirt, tucked in, accentuating his wide shoulders and slim waist. “And you?”

 

“Yeah, not bad, had an argument about just how bomb proof a bomb proof door was. And refereed one about just how much of a cordon is needed around a head of state. On the bright side, got to eat leftover afternoon tea from Claridge’s, which was delicious.”

 

Mycroft smiled. Lestrade dealt with the security teams from various dignitaries, and the managers of the most up-market hotels around the world, but he was still always excited about the free food and drink such occasions provided.

 

“We could, if you wished, take tea at Claridge’s one day,” Mycroft offered.

 

Lestrade shook his head as he sat down and opened his laptop. “Wouldn’t taste as good if it wasn’t free,” he answered.

 

Mycroft just smiled to himself. No matter how much they earned, Lestrade had a frugal streak a mile wide.

 

“Dropped in on the Centre, too. Sarah has made probably the most stunning display of sanitary products I’ve ever seen.”

 

Mycroft’s eyebrows lifted. “Have you seen many?”

 

Greg smiled. “Nope. But I’m sure even if I had, it’d be up there.”

 

“She certainly seems to be doing well,” Mycroft answered.

 

“She is. She’s perfect for the job. Knows people, savvy in a way no other receptionist would be. Straightforward, nothing’s going to embarrass her.”

 

“To think…well, I could never have imagined the many twists and turns life presents us with.”

 

“Me neither. Anyway, it’s great. Felt like I was…cheating on everyone I knew, when I waltzed in here.”

 

Mycroft gave a small smile. “And she is enjoying your old flat?”

 

“She loves it. Bought herself a bike, too, to get about on. Doesn’t like all the ‘knob-ends on the tube’ to quote her. Mind you, there’s enough of them on the roads, too. I told her to get a helmet.”

 

“Indeed. It does all seem to be working out in a rather pleasing fashion.”

 

“Think we’d ever have got this far, if life had carried on as normal?” Lestrade looked up.

 

Mycroft sat back in his large leather chair. “I fear not.”

 

“You don’t think one day…or night…in some far off place, we’d suddenly have fallen into each other’s arms?” Lestrade grinned.

 

“I think we were both far too professional. The night…the night before you were taken, do you remember it?”

 

Lestrade shook his head.

 

“In the early hours there was a rocket attack - it was some distance away, but you awoke, and were watching from the window of our room…”

 

“Our room?” Lestrade queried.

 

“We were sharing. The security situation was not ideal. You felt it was best.”

 

“Maybe I was trying my luck,” Lestrade winked.

 

“Well, if you were, I was not aware of it. Anyway, you stood at the window, in only your underwear, and…well, it was torturous, to say the least.”

 

Lestrade laughed loudly. “Oh God, I’m sorry. But I can imagine you, hiding under the covers having a lech.”

 

“I did not! I mean, I…you make it sound extremely sordid. I was a perfect gentleman.”

 

Lestrade just raised an eyebrow.

 

Anthea chose that moment to enter the room and head for her own small desk. She’d taken a few steps before looking from one man to the other.

 

“Should I leave?” She offered.

 

“Mycroft’s in a mood because I called him lecherous,” Lestrade explained.

 

“Oh, well, of course,” Anthea took her seat. “He is most definitely not lecherous.”

 

“Thank you, my dear,” Mycroft looked slightly smug.

 

“He’s voyeuristic.”

 

Lestrade howled with laughter at the look of shock and betrayal on Mycroft’s face, whilst Anthea carried on as if nothing had been said.

 

“That is absolutely untrue!” Mycroft spluttered.

 

“You have accessed, in the past month alone, four thousand, two hundred and thirty-one CCTV feeds,” Anthea said, without looking. “Many of them in the vicinity of ‘subject 21’, one G. Lestrade.”

 

Lestrade slowly turned from looking at Anthea to staring at his partner, eyebrows raised in question.

 

“I…may, perhaps, sometimes…” Mycroft started weakly. “Um…may…miss you.”

 

“Mmm,” Anthea answered.

 

Lestrade grinned. “I don’t mind, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s actually quite sweet.”

 

Mycroft spluttered, shook his head, and concentrated far too hard on the document in front of him.

 

“Anyway, having a swim in a minute,” Lestrade said. “Going to watch me? I mean, join me, join me, that’s what I meant to say.”

 

Mycroft huffed, then glanced at the time and stretched. “I believe I might join you,” he said pointedly. “If only to calm myself and prevent myself from sacking my PA for impertinence.”

 

Lestrade nodded. “Anth, if he ever gives you up, you’re mine,” he winked. “And I’ll give you a raise.”

 

Mycroft groaned. “My life was so simple, once.”

 

_______________

 

The pool was an extravagance, but one which, in Mycroft’s opinion, was worth every penny. He had had it installed in the basement to aid Lestrade’s recovery, primarily, and because he had personally never felt able to attend a public pool - far too vulnerable, not to mention being in public in the equivalent of one’s underpants.

 

Long after the physiotherapists had gone, and his leg was healed so that he only had a barely detectable limp, Lestrade still faithfully did his exercises and swam a few kilometres on any day he was at home. Mycroft wasn’t quite as dedicated, but definitely encouraged the habit, occasionally sitting in the adjoining hot-tub section and watching as Lestrade swam against the current - a treadmill for swimming, as the man who had sold it to them explained.

 

 

Once downstairs Lestrade stripped off - at first Mycroft had been unsure about swimming - or even being in the hot-tub - naked, but, as Lestrade pointed out, it was a luxury you got when you had your own private pool.

 

Mycroft still found it hard, seeing the various scars on Lestrade’s body - most notably, nowadays, the pink ones on his calf, uneven and extensive, from both the bullet wound and various rounds of surgery afterward. Each mark seemed almost as if he were the one who had harmed the man.

 

He had asked Lestrade about what happened in Afghanistan, but he’d never really got an answer, and he didn’t push. He could guess, from some of the marks, what torture had been inflicted. It made him feel physically ill to imagine how Lestrade must have felt when literally all he could remember was pain and fear, or when he had made it back to the UK, and found himself completely alone, with the terrifying prospect of being sent back to Afghanistan if he was found.

 

They both had a quick shower under the huge dinner-plate sized shower heads he had insisted upon, and whilst Mycroft slid into the delicious warmth and bubbles, Lestrade turned on the pumps for a swim.

 

Once he’d finished Lestrade nimbly slid over the adjoining wall, and virtually onto Mycroft’s lap.

 

“Mmmm,” he sighed. “That is lovely.”

 

Mycroft chose to believe he was referring to the warmth of the water, and not the very close proximity between them.

 

He cleared his throat. “I was led to believe that this hot-tub was large enough for five fully grown adults,” he said. “Yet you seem to have decided to sit in the one seat I occupy.”

 

“One, we’re never having another three people in here,” Lestrade said, smoothly floating away and sitting in the next seat along. “And two, none of the other seats are nearly as sexy.”

 

“You are a ridiculous man,” Mycroft answered, pulling Lestrade close again, entwining their fingers and watching as their wedding bands settled next to each other.

 

Lestrade grinned and kissed him on the cheek. “I came back from the dead, there’s no point in being normal after that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and leaving such lovely comments.


End file.
